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| Belle de les nuits d'été; Sovereign Party - Open to all! | |
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| Topic Started: Jul 10 2015, 04:59 PM (1,411 Views) | |
| Galena | Jul 10 2015, 04:59 PM Post #1 |
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Thy sins, paid in blood...
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((NOTE: The party is a Masquerade. The theme is to dress as the opposite sex of your character. Men dress as women, and women dress as men. Have fun!)) The hum of crickets and cicadas gave a gentle cadence to the otherwise velvety silence of the night. The host stood upon the steps overlooking the activities of the garden, the fine filaments of the quill tickling her lips each time she tapped it against them, her eyes everywhere at once. Everything was going as neatly as clockwork, so to speak. Her presence merely helped to grease the wheels where the bustle of the additional hired staff for the evening were concerned. Strings of paper lanterns winked and glittered like a ladies jewels, strung between the trees and various garden ornamentation. Several long, low tables were set out on the grass, her staff already ladening them with enough food to feed half of Soto. She might have winced if she knew of the expense, but as it was, she had a man who dealt with that. She merely had to stand by and dictate what she had in mind, and he meticulously noted it down, punctuated by his occasional note of advice in his reedy whisper. She might have said that he paled at the thought of the expense, but it was hard to tell with his complexion. Not much taller than her, her Master of House, Linnaeus, stood by her elbow scratching away at his little portable writing desk. Even well dressed he seemed dusty to her, as though he'd been secreted within the forgotten stacks of the archives. His mannerism she thought, was rather twitchy all told, spidery fine-boned hands and a nose that, combined with his bald pate and the downy white spray of feathers behind his ears, made him look sort of like a severely constipated eagle. "I believe the first guests are arriving, mistress." Mossy eyes drifted to him over her spectacles, the quill halting in its thoughtful tapping. Well it was bound to happen eventually. She couldn't deny them after having written the invitations and had the news circulated herself. The little cluster of musicians struck several experimental chords, thin and transparent on the night air. They were only one group, situated to serenade the hungry, while others yet occupied the long dining hall, now cleared for those that wished to dance and mingle inside. Upstairs were several guest suites for those too far from home to travel back, and those without city lodgings...or perhaps errant couples wishing to...occupy themselves for a short time. Well, it was a party. "Linnaeus, please see that our guests are directed toward this side of the house, and check to see if the secondary hall is ready." "At once, mistress." She stood there a moment longer as he scuttled off, the first hint of a frown crinkling her forehead. She'd thought of leaving it closed off, but the mosaic that spanned the wall was always a fun talking piece for guests, if one enjoyed masterful works based on mythology. Including nymphs, naturally. And satyrs. Her lips twitched. Well. Galena shifted her weight from one hip to the other, and scratched at her hair. She'd done a fair job, if she said so herself, when considering that before it had been past her shoulders, and now was a bouncy cap of golden curls. Linnaeus had neither approved nor despaired, was was not uncommon, but she'd expected something at least to have passed his lips. he was, she thought, quite like her. Which was to say, as bent as a sack full of coat hangers. To fit with the theme of the masquerade, she'd bound her chest, a not-insignificant feat, and wrestled herself into a man's doublet of rich sapphire blue with gold brocade and tiny seed pearls, and breeches to match. A little ostentatious for her taste, but if she was going to dress up, she was going to be downright fabulous.It still managed to hug her hips but not, she hoped, quite as much. Not that anyone would mind, she was sure, most of the time she wore a stola, and appeared as shapeless as a wedding cake she was certain. Her boots and gloves were soft ivory leather, the former with little heels on, enough to make any Morrimian court dandy swoon she was sure. All in all, she was quite pleased with the effect, even if she did feel a bit like a stable boy in a lord's wardrobe. "Hehe, hello." She turned at the sound of the voice, the gentle dry cough like an owl trying to regurgitate from her Master of the House almost unnoticed as she was almost suffocated in the bosom of the enormous woman while her husband dithered like a barely-tethered tugboat. "AH MY DEAR, THERE YOU ARE! WHAT AN ODD CHOICE FOR A THEME, BUT, IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF, IT'S RATHER EXCITING, ISN'T IT?" She beamed, showing off a mouth with far too many teeth not to be predatory. It wasn't that Lysistrata Priapos was loud, even, she just seemed to fill entire rooms with her presence, and everything was punctuated with smiles. Even without all the material masking her legs she managed to glide along like a galleon under full sail in a high wind. Her husband, not so much. She detached herself with some difficulty and straightened her doublet, sweeping them both a brief, elegant bow, and kissing the back of Arsenios' hand as she might a lady. Which he was. Even without the dress. "Please do enjoy thyselves, we have music and refreshments in the garden, as well as indoors if that be thy choosing." Galena passed a handful more of pleasantries with them before they moved away, her smile fixed in place until she was quite sure they were gone, then clutched her ribs and loosed a slow exhale. By the gods that woman could squeeze a bear to pulp! "Madame Barillus!" "Mister Cacciapaglia. What an honor." She contemplated pretending to be fascinated by something else, but really respect owed that much. Honestly though she thought he probably would have bowed even she hadn't. It wasn't much of a bow to be honest, more of a strategic reorienting of direction. He swept off his hat which somehow ended up out to the side of him after some complex hand manouvres accompanied by staccato clicking of wrists that sounded like a pair of castanets, while his head sagged lower until it was level with her bosom, one of his legs aimlessly wandering away behind him. Impressive, she thought. He'd probably be quite good at limbo. Some people seemed to think that if you got to know one person with a tiny trickle of power, it would rub off on you. Some people thought it meant that if you got chummy, you'd have a better chance at getting your ideas on the council. "Hm? Many apologies, mine mind is quite occupied, ser." "I said, why on earth are you dressed like a court dandy?" "It's a masquerade. You did know? Mm, speak to Linnaeus, verily he shalt direct you if thy wish is to blend in. I am sure I can spare a stola or two." "Ah yes, most gracious of you, Madame, but if I may just..." She wasn't really listening, his grandiose speech going to waste as he burbled on in the background, her fingers gratefully taking the minor distraction of a glass of red from the tray offered to her. Over too soon, of course. Now if she could just extract herself before he started talking about taxes and the weight of flour, she might not die of old age. It came in the form of a screech in the direction of her musicians, had her hurrying away across the grass and leaving the trader talking to himself, til he realized she'd gone and left him without so much as a 'by your leave.' "Prithee, what is the matter?" "Shae just broke a string, madame. She'll be fine, when she stops whining." Galena raised a brow as the woman hit the pianist over the head with her bow. At least it wasn't the entire violin, she supposed. "If thou art quite finished beating one another senseless..." Heads were ducked, the instrument restrung and things set to rights, though several of her earlier guests had already begun drifting their way, much to her chagrin. "Verily, mine guests require a little entertainment." "Will you join us?" The councillor hesitated, sorely tempted, though her treasured lyre remained in her rooms. She glanced once over her shoulder, saw the heavyset trader hustling his way towards them and pinched the bridge of her nose. The whole idea of a party was that she didn't get bogged down talking business with people. "Yes, very well, Figlia Del Cielo, don't you think?" She was aware that her words were hurried, the small group exchanging amused glances as she sipped from her wine. A little liquid courage never hurt anybody, except maybe that one priest in Ashoka. Her fingers drummed the rolling rhythm against her thigh, then she lifted her voice, soaring with song, and hopefully she thought, stopping her awkward guest long enough for someone else to grab his attention, or hers. ((The song.)) Edited by Galena, Jul 23 2015, 06:13 AM.
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Jul 10 2015, 11:21 PM Post #2 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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"How do you put this on?" Nakara looked up from buttoning up her coat, to see her brother struggling with the bodice of a dress. He was narrow enough to pull it off, like her -- but unlike her, he actually pulled it off quite well. He'd done his own makeup and everything. She ignored him in favor of lighting a new cigarette, puffing on it carelessly. "The fuck should I know? I don't wear that shit." Taras rolled his coal-lined eyes. "Figures." He mumbled, trying to hook up the corset. "That's what I get for asking a girl." "What was that?!" She looked up sharply. "You makin' fun of me?!" He didn't answer, but straightened his back and turned this way and that in the mirror, smoothing out the rumples in the bodice. His gown was black and violet, that rather brought out his eyes nicely. The neck on it was high, high enough for him to just pretend like his boobs were really really small. The sleeves were of black lace, the skirt long and hoopless. He frowned and leaned forward, fixing some lipstain he'd messed up on. "This color makes my lips look thin." "They are thin, you moron." Nakara, by contrast, appeared totally unbothered by any imperfections. All she had had to do was look in her closet at the Naumenko manor and pick out some of the more dressy of the clothes she normally wore: this one a fancy, sleek black tunic and trousers, shined leather boots, and a gold sash at her waist. She had tied back her hair with a strip of black velvet. She flashed a grin at herself in the mirror while Taras looked on jealously. She arched a brow, and took a drag. "So are you gonna fix your face or stare at me like you wanna be me? Oh, wait--" Taras narrowed his eyes. He knew where she was going with this. "Shut up." "--your face isn't broken, it's just ugly! HA!" "Asshole." He grumbled, and went back to work. His twin watched him for a few moments before pulling an expression of disgust. Nakara tucked the smoke between her lips and stepped forward. "God, you're killing me. Look, watch carefully: here..." She hooked one clasp, "...and here. There." Thus satisfied, she straightened up to find that their faces were mere inches apart. Her frown deepened, seeing Taras's sudden, somewhat lascivious smile. "Give us a kiss before the carriage gets here." "Fffffuuuuck!" Nakara curled her upper lip and gave him a righteous shove before turning away to wait for their carriage outside their fancy inn. He stumbled back in his heels, laughing at her disgust, and simpered after her, snapping open a black lace fan and fanning himself furiously with it. "O, sweetness!" He breathed in a convincing falsetto. "You mustn't leave me like this! Abandoning me on our wedding night? How could you!" As she stalked through the lobby and he pranced after her, people conversing fell silent and stared. Taras positively shrieked. "DARLING!"" "WHAT?! GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU IDIOT!" Nakara turned again and gave him another shove. He stumbled back and bumped into a vase on a low shelf, and snorted when it fell and broke on the floor. Now that destruction was following the Walk of Shame, Nakara grinned. "SOMEONE ARREST THIS MAN!" "Hey!" The innkeeper was furious. Nakara grabbed her brother's hand and, just as they had done so often as kids, the two took off into the night, laughing, not caring who heard them. --------------------------------- The place of partying-to-be was even prettier than they'd expected it to be, and even Nakara was a bit taken aback. "Hey. Nice." She commented helplessly as they passed through into the garden. Taras's attention had been drawn a bit by the mural. As a boy he liked to read old stories and songs, much to his mother's disgust, but now he could hardly remember any of them. It made him feel like he'd missed an old friend. But as they passed the mural and the fresh air greeted them once again, they each looked around, settling their gazes in turn upon the lanterns, the gold-lit leaves and flowers, the musicians, and the food table. A serving person drifted toward them -- they were dressed as a male but considering the nature of this particular party the siblings were suspicious -- and offered them each a drink, which Taras accepted. Nakara politely declined and eyed the beverages with a sidelong glare that the server quickly shied away from. She was determined to stay as sober as she could, as long as she could. Afterwards, however, a pair of mischevious smiles graced their almost-identical features, and they exchanged a glance. Nakara spoke first: "Nice place, huh?" "Very nice." Taras replied. "Nice-looking people, too." Then, together: "Let's fuck the whole thing up." The two drifted together effortlessly, stepping in time with one another, and appeared on either side of the trader making his way for the musicians. Taras raised his finely-trimmed brows and sipped his drink. "And what are you supposed to be?" Nakara took the man's arm with a predatory grin. "Don't you love this weather?" "And the season?" Taras simpered, taking his other arm with his free hand. "The night's a veil with a crown of stars--" "--come, we'll use the moon as a scepter!" |
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| Phaedrus | Jul 11 2015, 12:00 PM Post #3 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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[warning: GAY COOTIES AHEAD SORRY IT’S SO LONG OOPS] “Oh, Master Phaedrus. A ball? I am so excited. I’ve not been to a ball.” The effeminate chatter squealed in his ear. The face it belonged to was pretty enough to belong to a girl under normal circumstance — such a dazzling grin, the eyebrows well-plucked, skin the color of honey. He’d never outgrown his affection for Ashokan stock. Still, looking at Marcelius’ dovelike eyes, he wished he wasn’t so daft, thoroughly and terribly. “Shhh. What did I tell you about that name?” the redhead scoffed, eyes narrowing ever so. “Tonight, I am anyone but. Who am I?” “Why, the ebullient Miss Fae,” the dandy laughed, tan fingers dancing playfully over Phaedrus’ collarbone. The other hand wound around his own. There was a sudden warmth as Marcelius pressed himself against him, a dollop of curls tickling his cheek. “Escorted by the valiant Ser Marcel. Is that right?” “Most right, dove.” A serpent’s smile coiled on his pale lips. “Oh, but I hate you as a woman,” the boy pouted, dark eyes wandering down the blue corset, to the crescent of cleavage. “You do it frightfully well.” “And I hate you as a man,” the necromancer retorted, fingers tightening in Marcel’s hand. He brought it up and kissed his knuckles, meeting the boy’s indignant gape with a glittering stare of his own. “But we must make due.” “Hm.” An affect of haughtiness; but it was easy, so easy to melt the boy’s temper with a lingering stare, a smirk in the corners of his lips. Like butter in a pan. He could not be vindictive if he tried, the poor, useless thing. That was why he was so available, why he would have answered his calling-upon at all, why he had not slept alone on his miserable return to Madrid. “You are so cruel to me. I don’t see why I couldn’t be Lady Marceline—“ “Because,” the necromancer began, trying to sound as if he did not stand on the precipice of his wits. “We could not go as two women, nor two men —that would be unseemly conduct. They do not know you; let them think you are a woman beneath that doublet.” Then, to silence the rising scoff— “Your arse is shapely enough for it.” “Wicked thing,” the boy muttered, turning a flushing cheek. Then he turned abruptly, eyes sparking. “Unseemly. You care for me, don’t you? Well then, let them stare. Let them look upon us.” Devils, no. Some conscience still left told him the whole lot had been a bad idea — the sudden impulse to write to Marcelius, the lies told with wine-thick breath, the selfish loneliness. What did it matter, any of it? His decision to go to the ball had been almost manic — an excuse to tear off his face, to be someone else, to thrive in the escape of transformation for one night. The drugs earlier hardly helped; the drag of the pipe Marcel was so fond of, for his ill humors and nervous constitution — they left everything a bland glaze. Trembling, again. “…Phaedrus? You care for me, don’t you?” The necromancer did not answer, lost in the quivering of his lip, the pouty cupid’s bow and lush eyelashes — a face that chased some ancestor of the deserts, mingled with the fine cheekbones of Soto. A beautiful face. “Yes,” he lied, a breath. His hand snaked up, up, grabbed the young man’s jaw, traced the blushing line of his cheek. “Yes, Marcel, of course.” Before the boy could open his mouth, he sealed off any retort with a kiss — nails digging, lips working — and broke off with a devilish smile. “Now, no more dalliances. We’re already late. You have Miss Barrillius’ gift, yes?” “Yes,” the boy breathed, enchanted. A tinkle of a laugh escaped him, high and delicate. “Good. Let us go, then.” *** For the occasion he had not spared any absurdity, no pin overlooked, no trinket too small. His hair rippled in bloody tresses, coiffed by his own hands while the rest was left to spill over his shoulders. A wry little smirk kept on his porcelain face, warmed only by a touch of rogue on his cheek and lips. Else wise it was his eyes — their almond shape starkly outlined, a startling cat’s yellow against the charcoal. At his middle he hooked his fingers, glinting with the odd touch of rings; a dress of royal blue spilt to his ankles, streaming behind the intermittent clip of heels. It hid the mannish slope of his shoulders and arms, sold the illusion of some nobleman’s plump wife. And to distract skeptical eyes was the fine assemblage of his chest, conveniently highlighted by gold filigree. Several men turned to stare on his passing — a private smile brewed in him, spilt in Marcel’s tittering. “…So, how do you know the Councillor, Ma— Lady Fae?” “Why, from the most devious party. I crushed her petunias, the poor thing. Woke up in a bed of them.” Marcel stared at him with the intensity of someone trying to figure if that was a euphemism for something else, black eyebrows knitting. “You—?” “Exactly as I said,” the necromancer remarked. The boy furrowed his brow, then was promptly distracted by the sight ahead. “Oh!” Again he gave an excited squeeze of his arm. A great smile broke out on his face. “Oh, Phae — it is wonderful!” The estate sprawled before them. People milled, glittering like the jewel-bugs of the desert, guffawing and muttering in masks: men in skirts and women in trousers, some not dressed at all and looking quite upset with the state of affairs. A wan smile scraped over Phaedrus’ face. Somehow Marcel’s excitement was irritating rather than endearing; a mark of naivetie, a painful love of frivolousness. It had not been like her excitement, her discovery — somehow in her it was different, when she whirled in the grass of the Eternal Gardens, laughing, enraptured by a simple train of stilt-walkers. The summer felt wrong and strange, an inferior replica of the year’s previous. “… those shoes! And, oh, the decor! How lovely!” The boy had been chattering into his ear; his mind was blissfully elsewhere, slipping in and out, glazed. Music floated high in the air, waltzed around him. Lanterns bobbed like luminescent creatures, floating through that great, colorful sea. Somewhere, the orchestra swelled, climbing to a crescendo — when a string snapped, sending it stumbling like a great beast on a tripwire. A winkle marred his powdered brow; sniffing, Phaedrus continued on, through the familiar gardens and rambling murals, the finery of naked statues, searching for their madcap host, the ever-seemly… There. In the absurd doublet, her hair a shining golden net of curls. At first glance she could be the boy carved in marble across Soto — till one marked the curve of her hips, visible even in her trousers. Good show, though, good show. “Ah! Ser Barrillius.” His eyes alighted on Galena— attentive but without their usual sharpness, clearly addled and hazed by drug. A smile curved his painted lips. “How positively rakish you look.” A giggle spilt off his lips; there was a sharp snap as he produced a fan, fluttering it gently under his chin. Then, with a sly look about at the encroaching traders and babbling old men, a whisper to her ear— “And who are these company of vultures? Oh no, ser. You should be out charming the fine women of this night.” He flashed her a knowing smile and look — a perfect brow quirked, and in a moment he turned, fan shooting out to block the approach of a wide-mouthed toad. He waved it, feigning complete obliviousness as he stood by Galena’s side. The necromancer jabbed Marcel lightly on his skinny side, shooing him to the Councilor’s other flank. Together they made a foppish bodyguard, steering away the less amiable of society. Marcel put his hand to his hip, skewing the absurd plumed hat further over his curls. “Excuse me, madame—“ a trader coughed, his red face pinched with annoyance. Phaedrus shot him such a glower, his face a carved marble mask of womanly wrath, that he paused, shrinking. The necromancer seized the moment, whisking Galena away with a sordid clip of heels; Marcel giggled amiably, chattering vapidly into her ear. “—Oh ser, what a splendid house and ball! I have never seen such the like — the murals are positively—!” He searched for a word other than erotic to say in proper company, plump lips faltering. “—Titillating,” Phaedrus offered, sweeping by an exotic mural of unclothed and — cavorting nymphs, one he had woken up under wearing nothing but a wine-stained sarong. He supposed it had been a toga. When he looked over his shoulder, it seemed they had avoided all but the most stubborn pursuers, dressed unforgiveably in scarlet and harrumphing through ugly facial hair. They passed a gaggle of people in matching peacock dresses, each cackling with the shriek of a demon. Several masked eyes followed them but lost interest. Marcel bounced along like some embarrassing puppy, hopelessly gaping at everything. The music began to pick up — a shrill violin, perhaps the prelude to something more… danceable. At last they seemed to have lost their pursuers; the wall of cackling hags sealed them off, great and shimmering in blues and greens. Phaedrus slowed to a stop, a devilish smile melting over his face. Here it was less crowded, milling with groups of people who were trying to get to the orchestra; a summer breeze stirred the stifling air, brought the scent of roses. “Here we are. Oh, but I need a drink. I need twenty,” the necromancer sighed dramatically, slipping his arm from Galena’s to fan himself. Marcel jumped at the opportunity, swiping two wineglasses from a passing servant. One he extended with a gallant smile, mortifyingly going down on one knee. “My lady,” he piped, in his fluting voice. Phaedrus took it with a click of nails and rings, a smile he only half-felt. His eyes crinkled behind his fan, splayed mysteriously across his face. Get off from the mud, then, you’ll stain my hose. “Charming, ser.” “We should have a toast!” He exclaimed, eyes shining, a great grin on his face as only youth could smile. He was pure, untainted, smiling because of his past instead of in spite of it. The joy in her was bravery, but in him it was just… “To the gallant Ser Barrillius, and his impeccable taste.” The wine glass glinted in the lantern light. Marcel looked at him, his gaze soft, warm. “And to my gracious, beautiful lady, the moon to my stars.” Phaedrus’ eyes widened in a fraction of fear, stiff as the boy pressed a kiss to his cheek. For a moment he stared at Galena as if to say ‘help me,’ eyelashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly. Oh gods, oh devils no. When they shared a toast he was surprised he did not crack his own wineglass, everything felt so brittle of a sudden — smiled anyway, as a lady was wont to do, and nearly chugged the half of it in one gulp. Marcel was back at his arm again, hanging onto him like a moonish schoolgirl. “Oh! The package, Phae!” The boy gasped, cheek rubbing against the silk of the necromancer’s dress. “How could we nearly forget!” “I’ve a gift for you,” Phaedrus smiled, regaining his composure and snaking an arm around Marcel’s waist. Somewhere the consequences were banished to the far end of his mind — the rocks thrown at his window he often suffered, the tearful callings-upon at unseemly hours, the heartbroken letters… it all seemed rather silly, trivial, a thing they’d brought upon themselves, what with his reputation… “Marcel?” The boy nodded, drawing out a thin, exquisitely wrapped package from his breast pocket. He extended it with a smile. “I believe I have something that belongs to you,” the necromancer smirked. “How unseemly of me — ah, it pains me to part with such a beautiful thing! But that is a miser’s gift. There is something more.” This one he reached for, himself, his white fingers dancing in the air; it rippled, bent, and there appeared a jar in his hand, cracking with hoarfrost. It was promptly melted by the contents within — a fire that, upon further inspection, was actually a living flower, its petals rippling with planar energies. Marcellius gave a short gasp beside him, entranced by the rare show of magic. “From the Mulciber. There were some strange goings-on there that I was called to — you cannot believe how wretched! Nevertheless, Ser Barrillus, I happened upon these. I thought it was a temporary apparition, but it seems there has emerged a new breed of flower, one fused with curious magics. I could not puzzle it, but perhaps you should like to.” The necromancer offered the jar to the dashing golden-haired man before him. “The flower is not hot to the touch at all — rather warm, actually; it only grows on ash and fire. Very odd.” Phaedrus shrugged, flicking his wrist as if to dismiss the whole phenomena. OOPS I DREW LADY FAE
Edited by Phaedrus, Jul 11 2015, 01:16 PM.
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| Mirix | Jul 11 2015, 08:17 PM Post #4 |
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The Insatiable
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(Trigger warning for... violence and/or gore) “Would you fuck me?” He whispered seductively to his reflection while applying a dusting of black eyeshadow, being sure to blend the shading into the most perfect of smoky appearances. Ecru eyes stared at the polished glass, focused entirely on the action at hand. This was meticulous work and he had dedicated an entire hour to the creation of his look. His eyeliner was next, a thin tracing of red that matched the crimson tips of his hair, then extended outwards into the sharpest of cat’s eye. “I’d fuck me,” he answered, raising a perfect and low sloping silver eyebrow that required no touching up on his end. Using a thin, black pencil tip, he traced the outline of his lips, his hand steady as thoughts and ideas of how the night would go flitted through his mind. The demon hadn’t been out for a party in such a long time, having spent the majority of his time recently haunting the grounds around The Black Tower in Morrim. The place had been a nice location to act as a getaway, somewhere where he could recharge himself in silence and relative solitude. No one came there anymore, aside from the occasional group of bandits, but they were not fully unwanted; it was cool to have your meals delivered after all. Picking up a midnight shade of lipstick, he returned to his work, beginning to fill in the outline of his lips. “I’d fuck me hard.” There was a pause as he admired his handiwork, finally finished. His head turned, noting and weighing the appearance of the dangling ruby earrings that hung from either of his pointed, demonic ears. Puckering his lips at the identical vision of himself, a grin of satisfaction finally crossed his features, a silver glint flashing in his eyes. “I’d fuck me so hard.” Pushing himself back to hang from arm’s length of the vanity, Mirix sighed contently. The claw-like rings that adorned the middle fingers of either hand clicked their taloned tips against the wood in a lazy pattern as he admired his perfectly blended visage from a distance for a few moments more. “I can’t thank you enough for your endless generosity,” he spoke cheerily to a figure unseen, finally rising from his seat, his full height causing him to tower within the room with the assistance of the three inch high heels that adorned his feet. “Without your help I don’t know if I’d ever been able to be ready in time.” The demon eyed the form of a woman, her body naked and splayed out upon the floor in a still widening pool of blood, her long, blond hair framing her pale head like a halo. “Your donation is much appreciated.” Red claws cupped his bosom which was pressed up and made perky by the corset he wore. He reached under and gave them a good pat, causing the stolen flesh to jiggle in response. The covering of makeup he had applied allowing his new cleavage to actually match the color of his own skin while completely covering the stitchings where he had sewn them onto his chest in a twisted commitment to being authentic and creative. “Truly your endowment looks much better on me, wouldn’t you say?” Silence answered him and he threw his head back to cackle maniacally in response. “Anywho…! No time to chat! I must be off!” The clip-clop of his steps as he glided across the room towards the door amused him; no wonder women of high society had so many different pairs. Pausing at the doorframe, he half turned, eyes falling onto the corpse “Don’t wait up for me, okay?” And with that, he winked, blew a kiss, and vanished into the night. ~~~ The low-cut robes he wore hung in long silvery-red folds that drifted gently after him as he paraded his rather tall form down the drive towards the garden where the party was held, the silk slipping past legs that might have tried to become tangled in its length.The half mask that covered most of his face added to his sinister silhouette, the branches reaching toward the sky like pleading hands or antlers that, from the front hid the appearance of the feline ears that sat atop his head. The pale wood was carved into a fearsome, inhuman countenance, covered by the naturally occurring warps, swirls, and cracks in the wood, curving to cover his forehead and the entire left side of his face. A black pearl was set where his left eye would have been, the bottom of the mask splitting neatly through his lips. Once at the entrance of the green, he paused, his singularly visible right eye surveying the scene of the party, drifting predatorily over the faces of the other guests present. He drifted through the early attending crowd, robe slithering across the ground behind him as he moved further into the garden, following the sounds of music. It was good to make an appearance every once in a while, and he thought it unlikely that anyone would recognize him here. For the time being he would be on fairly good behavior, deciding to at first see what exactly this sovereign had to offer in terms of entertainment. Edited by Mirix, Jul 11 2015, 08:30 PM.
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| Sophia | Jul 12 2015, 02:29 PM Post #5 |
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High Inquisitor of Ashoka
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Sophia Looking at herself in the mirror Sophia could not help but feel a little put out. Not that she looked very much like a man, but at how easy it had been. Maybe a little here? Nope, she looked like a very convincing male who was a few years younger than her. Flattering. But at least it worked, she thought, for the purpose of what she doing. She stepped out of one of her safehouses in the city and began the walk to Galena's. Sure, she could fly, but it was a nice night. She took a glance at the sky, picking a small patch of it. There was an eternity in those few inches. Her tiny, insignificant nature compared to that put her at ease. It did not seem much of a problem how masculine she looked. She did look quite dashing, she supposed. Her hair was in short, stylish ponytail at the top of her neck, and the simple black mask covered the top half of her face, with only slight silver detailing on the edges. She had wore a tuxedo. The bow tie had been an utter arse to work out and she would not admit how long it took her to get it right. Everything feel under simple elegance, she had not gone for anything wild and crazy, instead preferring something traditional, old fashioned. She figured that was as anti Sophia as being a man was. Possibly more. Time passed quickly, and in some ways she felt truly anonymous. It reminded her of old times, when outside very specialist circles nobody knew who she was. It almost made her feel mischievous. About eighteen seconds later she was walking away from a tree which had, for some mysterious reason, had Sophia was here carved into it. She was quite she she knew nothing about that. It was not as if he had any chips of bark on her, was it? She would need to be some kind of telekinetic to stop that happening as she carved into the bark with a knife she called from her magic portal. She flexed her fingers. Huh. Maybe if you got rid of the all the callouses and tiny nicks and scars her hands might look a little feminine. Well, small victories. The walk did not take her long and she arrived at the hall as Galena was rushing off to do something with the music. Well, if not Galena then someone else who was the host. It seemed likely from the fleeting glimpse Sophia had. So... A drink. She noticed the table of food and thought that a good place to begin and headed towards it. She managed to find wine shortly before heading over watch their host sing. She seemed to stand out as along for the moment, and she felt no need to be overly social, yet. She merely watched and listened, a slight smile, a polite clap and a nod when she thought Galena caught her eye. She was walking into dangerous territory here. But for now, it was a pleasant place to be. She let herself, feeling knots work themselves out of coiled muscles as she exhaled. For now, not so bad. In actual fact, pretty good. |
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| Dara | Jul 13 2015, 04:05 AM Post #6 |
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"Why can't the road be flat?" Dara thought to herself, sitting in the back of an open air coach carriage, her legs dangled out the side and she kicked them back and forth, trying to maintain a rhythm. "Left, right, left, right,", BUMP, "CHEESE", the thought pierced into Dara's thoughts as the carriage ran across a particularly bad hole in the dirt road they were riding on. She shakes her head and pulls the tail ends of her blue scarf blowing off to the wind and hold them close to her chest, keeping it from flying away, with an audible sigh, she looks around her surroundings, unable to let her thoughts drift into another world. Varrick sat right behind her, silent and sitting on the bench passengers were actually meant to sit on. His face was down and he was slouched over, his rough cloak covering his body save for his form below the neck. "To any normal onlooker it would appear as if they were a just a sleeping father and his daughter," Dara suppresses a small smirk and the glint in her eye from the thought, from her angle she could clearly see Varrick's eyes were wide open, scanning the environment around them always and prepared at any moment to catch her if she fell off. The other passengers riding were pretty silent, all of them seemed be rugged, as if they worked outside of town and were returning from a hard day. They all sat on the bench to the opposite of Varrick, squeezing to keep away from them. "You know... You didn't have to scare them, they're normal people, harmless to us," Dara thought to herself, knowing Varrick would pay little heed to her words. He was too careful, too cautious to allow any possible circumstance where she could be hurt happen when he's around. Two passengers, without space on the other bench sat on the same bench as Varrick and Dara except they squeezed near the coach driver. It was a woman in a cloth, patched dress, the main cloth and color was a dusted dirty white and a layer of blue and brown cloth accentuated the dress, attempting to add some more fashion to the dress, under her right arm was a small boy who wore tan trousers and a ragged shirt, he was hiding under his mother's arms, sneaking peeks out to Dara and Varrick, the two strangers of their carriage. Dara opened her hand to the small boy and waved to him, her open fingered gauntlet stretching easily to the familiar motion. The boy blinked and then hid back inside of his mother's grasp, Dara caught Varrick's gaze for a split second, clear disapproval in his eyes. The cab driver was also rugged, wearing a highly worn black suit with a top-hat to fit, he glanced back every few minutes, checking on each of his passengers. "WHOA, WHOA," The coach driver yelled out to his horses, tugging on his reins a few times, calling the cab to a stop, "'Ere we ar', Madrid," He said, tipping his hat over to his passengers behind him. Dara and Varrick stepped off, "This is the place," Dara says quickly to Varrick. A few days ago they had heard some good news finally that could aid them in their near fruitless search, "Scuse me, ser?" Dara said, walking up to the coach driver as the passengers began filing out one Varrick moved out of the way, "Yes'm?" The cab driver looked at Dara. "Where is the Galena estate? The one where the massive party is being held?" Dara asked the person, ignoring the short glances the remaining passengers on the coach gave her. They whispered to themselves, a look of disbelief on their faces, almost as if they were surprised anybody would just go to one of those parties in that clothes. The cab driver points the way, "It'll be in dat di'ection messere, mind you it's a masq'ade party n' you gotsa dress an as a man." He advised Dara a few moments before snapping his reins a few times and pushing his horses forwards onwards to his next destination. Dara and Varrick talked to each other for a few heated moments, they had not been notified of the specifications of the party. Varrick visibly shrugged, his cloak rising nearly three inches above the ground and revealing his boots underneath as Dara said a few things attempting to convince him. He pulled out their money pouch and showed it to her face, noting at it's emptiness. The boy from earlier walked over and tugged on Dara's right gauntlet, grabbing her attention and giving her an escape from Varrick's lectures. She kneeled down and look at the boy, noting his fair skin and blue eyes, "Yes? What is it?" She said out loud in clear wonderment. The boy started to tug Dara away and into town with Varrick following closely behind, "Come." The boy said simply and then stopped in front of a small building with a wide clear window that showed several costume items. He pointed inside, "Get mask." He said and then ran off deeper into the town. Dara was confused for a moment and then walked inside the small wooden building and into it's dim interior, it was barely lit with a few lanterns placed around the room and Varrick then followed behind her, his girth covering the entire doorframe. She looked around the store, looking at a small section where masquerade masks were set aside, She picked through a few ones, some covering the upper face, others covering the left or right side, ones id black or white and the occasional bird feather attacked to one. Dara grabbed a mask made of a smooth white material that covered the upper half of her face, she showed it to Varrick who had little interest and refused to even touch any of the costume items. "We only have enough on us for one mask," Dara thinks, sighing inwards and goes to the store clerk. "87," The store clerk says... One they exited the area Dara and Varrick found the boy waiting for them outside of the shop, a bright smile on his face, his hands were behind his back as if her were holding something. He presented it to Dara, it was a pair old roughly made shirt and pants, "Is my brothers, you can use." He said. Dara takes the clothes from the kid and nods, ruffling the top of his head and then turns her attention to Varrick until she realizes the kid didn't leave yet. He was holding one more article of clothing in his hands out to Varrick. The strongman Varrick ran out of there as fast as he could, completely and outright refusing to take part while Dara pulled her scarf up over her cheeks to hid her blush and smile as her companion got the hell out of dodge. ... She examined herself and her looks, she felt pretty and at the same time very uncomfortable. She had wrapped her blue scarf around her head and tied it in the back as a makeshift bandana, allowing the tips of her silver hair to peek through the base and let her scarf tails trail outwards to her sides. She wore her normal shirt underneath the tan shirt the kid had given her before, the shirt seemed to be made out of a burlap like material and scratched at her throat whenever it had the chance, it didn't help too much that the shirt itself was nearly three sizes too big for her, often times the sleeves dwarfed her arms and made her seem almost like a child. The pants however, were the worst part, she had very little material save for a very thin layer of cloth to prevent the pants from scruffing up her legs and causing her major uncomfortability due to the material quality but at least it seemed to fit, even if the legs were folded up twice. Pretty and itchy. She did not remove her boots or gauntlets however, they were mainly disarmed of her traditional kunai but the steel semi spheres were still in place, in case blunt force was in need. Walking up the main drive however was a completely new experience for Dara, anyone who looked at her eyes through the mask she wore would see a wide eyed open mouthed girl completely taken aback by the grandeur of the entire place. Of course, Dara had read about parties before but she had never seen one of this size with her own eyes, the bustling crowds, the outstanding people, the music, the conversations, the persons of interest mixing in with common people and the clearly evident gaps between the amount of quality placed into each costume depending on each persons status quo. Though for all her amazedness, she finally stepped into the hall and saw many things. More people, some dressed in dresses, others with most of their work put into their hair, some standing up, others in intricate braids, a ponytail. There were several people who seemed to have just stolen the very drapes off the walls and wrapped it around themselves to create the most expensive clothes in the party. I do kind of look like a swashbuckler boy... Maybe a bit too rough for this polished environment," Dara thought to herself and then shook her head clear of such thoughts, "Remember, I'm here for information, Varrick is counting on me to find us information on the whereabouts of mother.... Oh look food." Dara rushed over to the lineup of food tables and began looking around, noticing several different cheeses everywhere. She immediately lost interest in her mission and grabbed a plate, picking up several cheeses as she went. "Swiss, Acapella, Aged Cheddar, Gouda, Aragon, New Moon..." Edited by Dara, Jul 13 2015, 05:48 PM.
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| Varrick | Jul 14 2015, 12:20 AM Post #7 |
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He was looking at the carriage floor, slouched over in thought, not much positive had happened since they had first arrived here, and not much help was offered so far, but hopefully where they were heading would soon change that. Varrick occasionally pointed an eye up at someone across him in the carriage as it rattled across the road, he was sure they weren’t trouble, but he never did trust even commoners. A large bump hit the carriage, causing him to check on Dara out of the side of his eyes, she was looking away, lost in thought as per usual. Sometimes he wondered what she was thinking, probably of her mother, but that really can’t be all she thought about. Was it about what would happen if we found her? Maybe she was just wondering if the moon was made of cheese? He turned his head back, but not before noticing a ragged lady with her boy sat far from him on the same bench as him. He never noticed them get on, or even sit down near him. His eyes widen slightly when he saw the boy look at him, quickly glancing away, he didn’t really want to scare the poor child, not like he could do much. He knew he was an intimidating figure since he got here, but he wasn’t a killer, he wasn’t like the filth that tried to teach him such things. His mind told him to say hi to the kid, so he didn’t look like a bad person, but knowing that everyone was watching him, he chose to remain the shield for Dara in case any of them got hostile. Always be on your guard, trust no one, two rules he always kept in his mind since childhood...err...except Dara and master, of course… Then a hand appeared out of the sides of his eye, he saw Dara waving to the little boy, he quickly glared back at her, wanting her to stop before the boy asked her mother to intervene, but then the carriage stopped. “Whoa, whoa!”, he heard, looking over to the coach driver, standing up, he tilted his head down so that he wouldn’t collide with the ceiling, walking out with Dara once she told him that this was their destination. He stood by idly as Dara asked the driver where the estate they were going to was. He was curious about the party ,but also annoyed by it. He hated the rich, how they always moved on in life without a care in the world, while people like him had to scrounge and survive every day of their life. He didn’t want anything to do with this party, let alone attend it. He immediately freaked out at the requirements of the party, you had to cross dress. Once the thought of him in womens clothes surged into his mind, he quickly spoke out to Dara. Nearby, the boy from before watched them arguing. “I’m not dresshing up as a girl!” The boy slowly walked up to them… “I didn’t know, okay?” ...and tugged on Dara’s hand to the surprise of both of them. Varrick followed closely behind Dara as the boy tugged her along to a small shop, where he stood at the entrance, impatiently tapping his feet. The shop looked familiar to him, but he didn’t mind to question it farther, it was most likely the grungy nature of the shop that gave him a nostalgic feeling. Out of the blue, Dara began showing him costume piece after costume piece, obviously uncaring towards whatever she picked out, he didn’t know how she was even able to afford these things, but somehow she did. Leaving the doorway, he kept an eye on the child, he was holding something behind him, seeing the smile on his face, he quickly cracked a small one behind his bandana. The boy presented Dara with some clothing, it appeared to be stitched together, the same you’d see on commoners, after glancing at Dara, his attention quickly shifted to the boy, who held up some clothes for him, they look girly, and chances are they wouldn’t fit him. “Um...I appreciate it but, uh…” Embarrassed and surprised at the proposal, he immediately darted off into a nearby alleyway. He retreated to a nearby Alleyway, sighing as he leaned on the wall and looked up at the sky, he trusted Dara not to get into trouble for at least 5 minutes, but he knew he’d have to track her down or else, as he stood there, he began to question why he ran in the first place…”That kid was being nice…” he thought, perhaps it was polarizing to someone who wasn’t given much as a child? He would have never given, only taken, he didn’t have much in life, so he lacked much to give in the first place, and that kid, he looked poor, yet he was really giving. After a few minutes passed, he shook his head, he knew he wouldn’t find the child in a city this large. It would just be a regret he had to bear, maybe one day he would get to thank the little kid, but for now, he had to go find Dara, he had left her alone for too long, and it was beginning to get a bit dark. Soon, he arrived at the large building, he scoffed at it, just another chunk of marble, brick, whatever those richy’s prefer. He didn’t want to just walk in, he didn’t want people thinking he was just an ugly girl or anything, and besides, climbing the walls would be a synch. As such, he chose the blunt and overly planned approach, sneaking into the nearby forest until he was out of the sight of any guests, pulling out his Kusarigama, he checked to make sure the chains were tightly around his arms, and thus began to climb up the surrounding stone fence. Once arriving at the top, he could see Dara’s silver hair poke out of the crowd entering, quickly darting across the fence to slam his back against the wall, one obstacle avoided, now for the other... |
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| Calliope | Jul 16 2015, 01:16 AM Post #8 |
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Goddess of Erth'netora
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There was more than one reason why both men and women all over were so willing to get down with the dryad, and it had absolutely everything to do with her natural physical charms; flowing auburn hair, bow-shaped lips, radiant skin, mesmerizing gaze, tempting curves of her body, and that sweet, melodic voice, which had, on more than one occasion, made even the birds jealous, although it hardly bested the voices of the Sirens from the Sea. The charming male stood in front of a mirror, his kaleidoscopic eyes taking in the subtle changes of Calliope's physique. Her hair was worn up in short and shaggy ringlets. With her breasts bound to flatten her torso, she wore a form-fitting long-sleeved dark tunic, a sleeveless belted leather jerkin trimmed with silver lining, trousers, and leather boots to match. A smirk of satisfaction came to her face and she turned away from the mirror to head out for the masquerade being hosted by Councilor Galena as she placed a dark, butterfly shaped mask over her eyes. Calliope, as a man, was still quite the looker. More handsome than any prince could claim. She dusted off her sleeves aimlessly. The dryad might have been carrying pure Esirian magic, which radiated like static from herself, but with respect to the day's activity, nullified it as best she could so as to not attract as much attention as she normally did. As far as anyone could tell, she was of new money, which would explain why nobody would be able to recognize her as the stunning dryad of the Pale Tree.... unless, of course, for other nature spirits that happened to be in the same vicinity. As obligated, she began a languid trek around the area, saying hello to dignitaries and nobles, and introducing herself as 'Count Caelian' to those she did and didn't know, all whilst keeping a close eye on Councilor Galena while she was not looking her way. Along with several other familiar women participating in the event, Galena was impressively disguised as a man, as well. Already, Calliope could feel a sisterly bond which connected and united all nymphs. She had always wanted to meet the Councilor face to face. It would be her lucky day. The servants, who were serving dishes on patters, maneuvered themselves through the crowds of people with fluid expertise, and Calliope maneuvered her way around them. She paused, however, in front of the musicians. Music, one of the most powerful influences of the world. A life without melodies and harmonies would be empty, after all. She mostly payed attention to the harp. Memories of her mortal mother teaching young Calliope how to play the instrument sent waves of nostalgia through her. The harp was the most beautiful instrument in the world.... However, the player was hardly worthy of having his bloody hands on the celestial instrument. He was positioned with the harp wrong, his fingers were not graceful enough, and was not as gentle with the strings as he should be, which created a somewhat unpleasant sound to the Dryad. It made her want to snatch the thing away and play it herself, but she did not want to attract too much attention to herself just yet. The party had only just begun! "You are holding the instrument all wrong, my good ser," she spoke with a graceful and controlled tone of voice. "Tilt the body of the harp between your legs and lean it onto your right shoulder. Do you feel how light it is now? Its weight becomes balanced this way. And your arms, they should be a little smaller than a right angle, like so. Yes, excellent. Now, turn it a little more sideways. Is that not more comfortable? Your fingers are too stiff, relax your hand. Now, play something. Hmmm. Close the fingers and thumb into the palm after playing a note. It will help you get more sound out. Ahh, not bad, I suppose. With a few more years of practice you may just become a true virtuoso...." Edited by Calliope, Jul 16 2015, 01:17 AM.
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| Galena | Jul 23 2015, 09:07 AM Post #9 |
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Thy sins, paid in blood...
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((Sorry this is long! Have some classical music c: )) The Dandy Oh that the gods should answer her so succinctly, when they were silent so often. Providing you wished to pray that the trees grew with the roots in the ground and always reaching for the sky, or that the sun would set, or that a small rock you may or may not have pushed off a ledge was definitely going to hit the ground, they seemed to have a one hundred percent success rate. She smiled gratefully at the duo as they intercepted the trader, and made a mental note to thank them personally later when she got a moment to herself. As the song ended she snatched up her hat from where she left it, a wide brimmed thing, the fluffy plume bobbing in the breeze as she swept her body into an elegant leg, remembering at the last moment she wasn't supposed to curtsy. Her musicians stood and followed in the wake of the polite applause before reseating themselves. Perhaps they ought to have left the apprentice behind, she thought, alright for an informal party but something a little more grandiose? Well...she didn't mind enough to mention it, and if he wanted to tinkle along on his harp, that was fine. Her eyes strayed past, then returned to the tall sharp gentleman, smiling faintly at her. If she didn't know better, she'd have said he - or likely she - had just walked out of some debonair romance with moors and terribly wet-behind-the-ears damsels and such. Which was to say that Sophia looked awfully dashing. She had only begun to lift her hand in greeting, to take a moderate step forward that was most definitely not a delighted skip or run or anything so frivolous when she found herself bundled away by a plump red-haired enchantress and her boyish escort, one to either side like bodyguards. An apologetic glance stole over her shoulder towards the High Inquisitor was all she could manage before she was swept away amidst foppish titters. "Ah..." Oh mine gods. Well at least he wasn't wearing her dress. That might have been embarrassing, if only because she thought he might have actually pulled it off better than she did. "Lady Faye, such a pleasure!" She trilled. On closer inspection he looked a little spaced out, and she wondered if she'd looked like that at the Angkar do. Well it was not uncommon...though he looked markedly better than the last time she'd seen him, like death, if death had been dragged through a hedge backwards and dumped at the roadside then potentially kicked and robbed by a band of orphans. Which was to say he looked like he'd gotten over whatever he was moping about. An involuntary flush of heat rose in her cheeks as he mentioned charming ladies...goodness, as if she would...it wasn't as though...it wasn't exactly a secret. Not really. Her closest friends knew, and Phaedrus, apparently. Well...she didn't think she minded, really. He was good fun, when he wasn't down in the dumps. "My, one looks positively...ravishing." Her eyes lingered a moment on the youth on her arm, then she winked lasciviously. Well, she'd suspected, it was only a small gloatingly triumphant moment to find that she was right. "Didst thou receive the doilies I did send to thee?" Galena pinched her lips together in a hard line, trying desperately not to burst out laughing as the foppish man shot such a look of feline superiority at a red-faced trader angling for her attention. She was surprised that he didn't simply shrivel up and turn to ash right there on the spot. Just to add insult to injury, she hooted with laughter as they passed another group of indignant guests, mustaches twitching with injured pride while they glided past like a trio of swans, oblivious to anyone else but those guiding her along. It was a marvel to see that she had yet to actually spill her wine on anyone, including herself. You tended to get well practiced at keeping it in the glass on the move, when you did these sorts of things. A soft laugh rippled from her throat as she raised her glass, mossy eyes twinkling at Phaedrus. "To the happy couple." Oh dear. It does seem as though thou hath found quite the delightful piece to dangle from thine arm... She tilted her head as he extended the package, her fingers delicately pulling the paper apart and lifting the lid, to see her missing comb nestled snugly within. A tight smile twitched her bow lips and she shook her head ruefully. "I had almost forgotten...I thank thee, verily, I shalt invite thee again when next I host something less...formal." She stiffened as the air tore and twisted in a way most singularly weird, the metallic tang of magic filling her mouth til she swallowed it away, eyes rooted to the imprisoned plant. "For me? Lady Faye, this is...most...unprecedented." She reached for the jar as he offered it, cradling it protectively in her hands, turning it carefully this way and that, examining every inch as best she could from outside the layer of glass. "Oh but to have a glimpse of the other side...this is a wonderful gift..far greater than I might repay, my lady. I shalt hath to- Oh no." "I wrote this one myself! Hem-hem. There one was a man from Angkar, who was a stupendous wan-" Her hand jerked out, catching the bard by the belt and dragging him bodily away from the revelers with a noise like a donkey being chainsawed, a broken tangle of notes spilling from his fingers as the lute twanged. Impressive, possibly, for he towered over the tiny woman, more than a full foot taller than her, and leaned an elbow unceremoniously on her head, squashing her hat. There was no mistaking that he was in fact a he, because despite the typical Ashokan Dancer attire, complete with veil, it did nothing to hide the fact that he had a beard, even if he did fill the cups perfectly. "Prithee, Foojoe, I didst tell thee not to sing that one." The Satyr, for he was such to her eyes, paused at the reprimanding tone and carefully stood upright again and straightened her hat. His tanned face split into a broad, lopsided grin then, and he tinkled a few notes experimentally, then tugged on one earlobe. "Sorry, I forgot. Should I serenade the lovers?" "Verily, I do not think that they-" "Great! Wonderful! Fantabulous! Let's see... There once was a lad called Marcel, Who offered a lady his parcel, She gave him a clout, And a kick in the spout, And had him arrested by the council! ...Council....hm... no wait that doesn't..." "Foojoe!" "Madame you have thrown me off my stride! This is...inconceivable! I am almost sober!" He smoothly took her drink from her hand, downed the lot and handed it back, which was probably a mercy in any case lest she have too much and make an ass of herself. "Better. Ooh...is that kidney pie?" She was left standing rather bewildered, as always in her brief encounters with the bard, her glazed expression turning to Phaedrus and his young man... "I am so sorry. He is...not in the altogether." *** The Fox The dark tail swung from her pants as she walked, fastened neatly to her belt to give the added effect that she was but one of those curious mischievous spirits of legend. Her chest ached from the bindings holding it flat beneath the long form-fitting leather coat, so many small plates of dark hide fitted seamlessly together in unsettling eldritch designs, at once a dozen leering faces, or perhaps dancing foxes 'neath a canopy of midnight. Soft buckskin pants hugged her thighs, tucked into high embossed boots, the tiny heels clicking as she flowed down the steps to the green and paused thoughtfully. The half cape hanging from her shoulders fluttered in the breeze, lanternlight flashing from the ruby dangling from her ear like a fresh fallen drop of blood, caught in suspension. The flare of her coat hid the curve of her hips effectively, the single slash in the back allowing for the tail to protrude for effect. Cold eyes glittered behind the sleek mask, pointed ears tilted forward as if in attention, or perhaps curiosity. Thrilling, she thought, to do something she considered so...taboo. To see so many of them masquerading as the opposite gender. Everything she'd grown up with screamed at her that it was wrong, wrong, impersonation of a female was wrong! Even now as a woman taller than her stepped down onto the green, clad in swirling robes of silvered red, she could not help the tingle of outrage and disgust that shivered through her. Yet, she had come, because she wanted to see it. Wanted to break those fusty illusions of rules that restricted and constrained her, where there should be none. Shrista turned, braids clicking softly behind her as she assessed the situation, and swallowed her discomfort. Her dark lips clamped together, teeth clacking audibly when she realized her mouth was hanging open a little in shock of the sight of so many...so many just...doing it. Well...she had plucked up the courage to do the forbidden, felt again the electrical thrill of it in her flesh, at the potential of being caught, though that alone was ridiculous, there were no higher drow women to tell her otherwise and punish her, no imprisonment and whipping, no abasing oneself before the altar and begging forgiveness from a goddess who cared little whether you lived or died. No, tonight she could be whoever she wanted. Tonight she was a fox, a spirit of summer nights. She inclined her jaw, watching the fiendish apparition beside her a moment, then slid into his path, a sly sneer curling her lips, skewing the paint that bisected them and continued the edge of her mouth to her cheekbones beneath the mask. Somehow she managed to look down on him, despite being no taller than his shoulder. Or her. He was a she tonight. Another flutter of anger, quickly stifled. Was she supposed to compliment them, rather than standing there awkwardly tensing with anger? It didn't come out as much of a compliment as she all but spat it in Mirix's face. "You will dance with me, creature of hellish enrapturement?" She extended one hand as if waiting for a death sentence, and glared at him while the pipes shrilled into a new song behind them. *** The Prince and the Maiden Bast crammed another chickeny pastry case thing in her mouth and chewed with all the determination of someone trying to ignore someone else chattering in their ear for the last ten minutes. She'd tried looking bored, tried deliberately positioning herself where she was hard to get at, but they still kept coming, and Jared had said that she wasn't to talk too much because it was embarrassing. Well, embarrassing for other people, and for him she supposed. She didn't care. It wasn't her fault they kept following her. Again she wished she'd just cheated and changed herself to actually be male. At least then she'd really look the part. She had none of the burly cragginess of Thepsis. Maybe she should have fought harder when Jared took her fake facial hair for twiddling it excessively in his face. Or maybe she should have just emulated her counterpart. He had a face like a building site with hair, nobody would mistake him for a woman. "And how do you know lady Barrilus?" "Eh? Oh uh...queefin'." "Queefing? What on earth is that?" She tried to make her voice lower, more gruff, and succeeded only in sounding sort of husky instead. It was an effort not to laugh really, when you were pulling all and sundry's nose. "S'sport tha' only wimmin can play." "Only women? Preposterous! Ah, Prince Bastion, you are a hoot!" "Aye." She muttered, stuffing a little stick laden with cubes of cheese and pineapple into her mouth. Stick and all. The way the scuffy boy in the bandana was going though, she'd have to fight him for the cheese at this rate. Her smoldering gaze followed Dara distractedly, one more excuse not to listen to the chatter at her ear before her companion scythed through and stole one or other of them. Course she'd rather be anywhere else than here right now. She'd come back to Soto with hopes, sought out the red door with the windowboxes of petunias and the abundance of cats. Had petted them all, noted how the neighbor's own rockery had wilted into a shape most peculiar that seemed to resemble the form of a shitting cat and had sat there with the sun warming her shoulders, basket on her knees for ages. It hadn't really occurred to her that he wouldn't be in, and after an hour of waiting and seeing the curtains opposite twitch so often that they might have been alive with parasites, she at the cheese herself, and left. The cats didn't seem overly bothered. She'd left a piece of paper wedged in the door with a picture of him...or as close to him as you might consider a monstrosity of a fat pudding shaped cat with his face on it could be, and in bold letters 'SHYTE.' She wondered whether he'd gotten it or not, but two following subsequent visits had returned no answer either, and swinging between moroseness and peevishness, Jared had offered her to go to this stupid party to cheer her up. It wasn't doing much good right now, bar vindictively upsetting every brown-noser that came crawling because he'd said she should be royalty for a change. Her attire wasn't very convincing, scuffed shoes and high stockings, a kilt and an argyle doublet cut to the mountain style had already been confusing people. The greens and browns offset the flame of her hair, short and choppy, scruffy Jared would have said, a simple runed circlet of bronze set atop her head. The thickness of the doublet made her appear solid enough though, hiding the shape of her chest, little enough that there was of it she considered. Only the shape of her legs would have given it away. "I say, why are you wearing a skirt lad?" "Et's no' a skirt, tis a kilt." "Where are you from?" "Murrim." She grunted, then raised her eyebrows innocently at the skinny man...woman...it was hard to tell anyway, moving along the table. God knows how he did it, she never thought he had the hips to wear a dress like that. Slashed at the hips to fall open, it was pretty outrageous she thought, even if the green matched her kilt. The neckline was low enough that she could lose an arm in it, and how the hell he'd managed to make a cleavage was anyone's guess since he was skinny as a whippet and probably hadn't an ounce of fat on him. She shot him a sour look as he came up, dripping emeralds into his crevasse and gripped her arm in the no-nonsense way that said 'so help me I will tan your hide', his smile as brittle as coconut ice. She thought his hair looked nice though, swept into a busy flyaway pony and cascading over one shoulder artfully. Disgruntled, the elemental realized she was mostly pissed with him because even doing a nice gesture like taking her to a party, he still looked a better woman than her. "Well I'm sure all this is terribly fascinating but I've become so inundated with boredom that I'm considering practicing the art of defenestration right here. Come along sweetness." It was, she thought, amazing how he could cut through a conversation all politeness and smiles like a hot knife through butter, and people just let him. Sort of like if you just stood and farted in the lull between talk. It was sure to kill the mood. Bast allowed him to steer her away, then took his arm companionably, twirling a cheese-and-pinapple-on-a-stick thing aimlessly. "Did you really say what I thought you said?" "Yep." "Mother of Lust! You know how people talk!" "Yep." "It will be all over Soto in a week!" "Probableh." "...You don't care, do you? Are you still moping over the fat ginger one?" "Shut yer hole or I'll shut it fer yeh!" She glared at him through the steely polished sheen of her mask, quite plain but for the ripples of forging and dents of hammering. She'd opted for nothing more, the ostentatious didn't suit her. The clothes he'd had made for her were fine enough, without all the sparkle. People were edging away from them, even as he settled one gloved hand on her arm in a soothing gesture. "You're supposed to be having fun." "Well I'm no'! Yeh can swan about pretendin' yer better 'n' a' o' them, but yer bein' jus' as much o' a clag tail!" Jhaereth pursed his lips, venomous eyes staring her down through the golden filigree of his mask. "Are you quite done?" "Aye. Sorry." "Good, now come and dance. Maybe you can burn off those pastry things before they get to your hips." "Imma punch yeh in the snooter in a minute laddie." He started to snort before she followed up with, "An' then I'll kick yeh in the jimmies." Jhaereth was left to follow more or less exasperatedly in her wake as she dragged him towards a likely pair, currently creating the most uncomfortable man in the world between them. Twins, maybe? "Oi you!" He sighed. It didn't matter how much etiquette you ground into her, she still seemed to revert to her barbaric ways. He felt almost sorry for Nakara and Taras as she homed in on them like an approaching stormfront. "Yeh wanna dance wi' us? Couples like?" He cleared his throat, extensively, and loudly until she got the point. It took some doing. "Oh, yeah this is Jared. I'm Bast." His grip on her arm increased subtly to a painful level, making her snarl silently in some semblance of a death rictus that could only be called a smile. Why did everything have to be a battle between them?! "Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Lady Jenna and this is Prince Bastion." "Yeah yeah, so, yeh wanna dance? Yeh look like yeh can keep up." She eyed Taras, happily elbowing the trader out of the way and extending her arm roughly in the way that probably offered for him to take it in some semblance of gallantry, but looked more threatening than anything else. "Savage." He muttered, pursing his lips and turning hooded eyes on Nakara. |
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| Calliope | Jul 23 2015, 03:39 PM Post #10 |
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Goddess of Erth'netora
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Calliope didn't waste any time charming the guests and dancing with them. She fluttered about like a social butterfly. She listened to the hostess' song, a sly smile a constant on her lips. The nymph hadn't failed to catch the enticing glances expressed between Galena and a black haired person. She had kept her eyes on them since observing that meaningful exchange. She smiled with pleasure upon sensing a deep and intimate relationship between the two. They were standing all alone. Stealing a wine glass from a servant as they passed by, she downed it in an instant and set it back down. Calliope meandered her way towards the tall, dark pony-tailed gentleman with porcelain skin. As she walked through the green, flowers sprouted underneath her feet. The flora and fauna bloomed all around her. The person wore a simple mask that covered their eyes and nose. Who was this stranger? She wondered. Had they ever met? It seemed as though they hadn't. They appeared to be refined and graceful, but they had a particularly dangerous and powerful aura. Even so, that would hardly deter the nymph of her efforts in any way. It provided for a greater attractive force. That force was one that would guide her way forward, until the moment she would stand beside the long trestle table in front of them. One glance at the table would tell her that all the chocolate chip cookies had been eaten. How disappointing. "Hello, sweet-ling," she said, speaking in a sultry mezzo-soprano. Calliope held out a welcoming hand. She did not leer at her body or try to make advances. Her charming aura could hardly go unnoticed. "May I have this dance?" Calliope took Sophia's hand in hers. She knelt and planted a sweet kiss with her soft lips before escorting her to the floor. The band was playing a song that sounded much like the Waltz of the Flowers. Yet, in a much slower rhythmic pace. Calliope's arm rested around Sophia's waist. Her hand held the small of their back. Her other hand clasped her right hand. Her eyes were mesmerizing. The nymph led Sophia in a slow waltz around the other dancing guests in perfect rhythm. "Mysterious, captivating, beautiful,"She flashed her teeth in a genuine smile. Calliope's kaleidoscopic eyes were captivated on them. A great deal of meaning was conveyed by a few well-chosen glances on her part. Hers shone and shimmered as they watched those icy hues. They said: 'Come, wonderful stranger, I must know more about you.' "I've lived here a long time now. How is it that we've never come to meet?" Her soft sing song voice rang over the music. Spoiler: click to toggle
Edited by Calliope, Jul 23 2015, 07:27 PM.
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| Phaedrus | Jul 23 2015, 11:39 PM Post #11 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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THE EBULLIENT LADY FAE & SER MARCEL A high, fey laugh spilt off his lips. “Why, yes. They were positively splendid, Ser Barrillus.” Indeed, he’d made a dramatic fuss over the state of his doilies — one, ruined by certain priestly houseguest, and at least three singed by… a candle. Yes, that was it, a candle stand that’d been knocked over after he tipped too much whisky into his tea, and then a drunken bout of mischief. That was as the story went, easier than the reality. He’d swallowed it so wholly and thoroughly himself that it came second nature when people asked him why there was a smiley face branded into his doily. He’d sighed, and made a lament of the ruined lace, a proper show, but in the end he hadn’t brought himself to throw them out, tucking them away beneath the napkins instead. Waiting, waiting — waiting still, still wondering what had happened. But he was not here to think about… those things. “The pattern was most exquisite…” a knowing smile curved his face as they walked arm in arm. The doilies — while their craftsmanship was superb, their paisley aswirl — looked manifestly vulgar if one viewed it from the right angle. He was fond of setting them out and counting how long it took for people to notice, or harrumph, or pause in the midst of their conversation. “…it certainly livened up teatime. I had to entertain a dreadfully boring linguist — a Master Ebraim, was it? — and the look on his face convinced me he was amongst the living, after all. My thanks.” The clink of their toast echoed in his ears, faintly mocking. Happy couple, indeed… He relented as the boy pressed closer, nestled just by his powdered cheek. Marcel’s doeish eyes fluttered, flickering upwards. Quite the cheeky grin had sprouted on Phaedrus’ face, widening only as the councillor unwrapped it, the tightness of her smile hinting at some… unseemly recollections. “And I shall look forward to it. By the by… I apologize about your petunias. I hope they’ve recovered.” Or at least grown since the arse-shaped hole I left in them. He watched as she took the second gift, turning it to and fro. All that was missing was a glint upon her spectacles, for all the mad botanist she looked then. It looked… proper in her hands, would be kept well, instead of ailing in his basement alongside hellish curiosities. It reminded him too much of the terror of the Mulciber — the voice cracked and spitting, the fell chill of the box, the grumble of the earth threatening to rip asunder. Besides… best to keep Councillors in good spirits. You never knew when you might need a favor. Yes… “Better in your hands than mine, Ser Barrillus — I can hardly keep a cactus.” At the notion of repayment he laughed, flicking out an effete hand. “Oh, no. Think of it as a… reparation. A gift from one scholar to anot—“ The words halted in his mouth, trampled by the appearance of a… singularly hairy creature, trussed rather — ah? — exotically in a belly dancer’s outfit. Galena had him yoked by the neck, a quite impressive feat for one her size, but then, he’d always suspected there was a lashing fury in her skinny limbs. A lute twanged, strangled — Marcel put a delicate hand over his lips at the scene, but the necromancer’s eyes widened, gleaming with a sudden recognition. “Ah!” Foojoe. Foojoe? The Foojoe, knighted madman, the angel of lewdness, cunning linguist self-proclaimed and lord of limericks, a veritable Orpheus of offal — the greatest misunderstood poet of their time? The singular inspiration for his penned epic, The Lusty Cloak Collector, and then the slew of utter rubbish after that… why, they’d met in — the legendary Bard’s Quarter of Madrid, the tangled streets and the women and the strange leprechaun, though perhaps he’d imagined that— yes! He’d thought it’d all been a strange dream, almost prophetic when he awoke the next morning, all but puking into his boots but humming with a curious creative energy. Why, he had been touched by the muses. Or perhaps the Muses’ cruder sisters. When the bard began to pluck the strings he felt certain — certain to his guts, and he grinned like a maiden being serenaded, even as his companion shrunk against him in confusion and disgust. Ah. So perhaps the night would be devilishly fun, then. He wondered at Galena’s sudden prudishness, but then — appearances were appearances, no? With the limerick done the necromancer gave a delighted laugh, half a cackle, his palms meeting in a dainty clap. “Oh, bravo, bravo,” he tittered, even as the councillor reprimanded Foojoe, and even as Marcel gave him the sort of look he’d come to be annoyed with lately, the sort of look that affected his morals were a-flutter. Oh, stop that, he wanted to gripe. As if you are a nun. Last night you had no morals at all. He was about to offer the good poet a drink and rejoinder before he acquired one for himself — sweeping off just as mysteriously as he came, elbowing past the patrons, and giving him no time for a limerick. Phaedrus watched him go, craning his head while Marcel pressed his lips in confusion, blinking after the bard. “I say. Who was that… curious creature?” “That is the King of Esiria,” the necromancer intoned solemnly. “And if you drink enough, he turns into a goat.” Marcel tittered politely, and his dark eyes searched Phaedrus’ face for the joke, waiting for an explanation, but found none. There was dead conviction in that tone. He blinked once. Twice, just in case, but no grin or sudden snort came. Then, sweetly, inquisitively, edged with some concern— “Wh—? Dear, what?” “I must have words with him. Just a moment! Ser Barillus, I pray you shall excuse me.” He gave a polite curtsey, immaculate down to the faint peep of ankle, a smirk on his lowered face and eyes. “But darling I—“ Marcel stared hopelessly as the necromancer detached himself with a promise to return, tearing away through the crowd. His lips moved dumbly, like a fish. “What in heavens—! They are not in the altogether,” the young man piped, looking wearily at Galena. One slim finger fluttered around his temple in a circle: cuck-oo, cuck-oo. He shook his head, pulling his hat down with a frown. “What a strange person he is,” he sighed, as if it was not the first time he’d gone chasing after hairy madmen. “Well, while he gallivants… shall I fetch you another drink, mada— Ser? That furred harlot had a way with it.” *** Oh thank the devils. He was about to explode. He still felt the kiss on his cheek, absent, prickling, frightening him as if it had been an angler fish on the end of it. The moon to my stars? By Khalid’s crusty bollocks. No, no, no. This was going far too fast, like a carriage about to collide with a wall. The necromancer swiped another glass of wine from a serving tray as he swung past the crowd, heels clicking audibly. He was far too tall in them to be a properly dainty lady, but heads still turned anyway, and he tossed his hair back with a hideous sneer, draining half the cup. How did women walk in this rubbish? It made his arse sway like a pendulum, and the bottom of his feet were beginning to ache and tingle. Mercifully it didn’t take long to find the man — and even if it did, he would have stopped by the pastry table anyway. “There once was a vampire called Mabel,” he sang by way of greeting, idly whisking up a plate and piling it with delightful little tarts topped with fruit. “Whose periods were very unstable…” The necromancer plucked one up in his daintily manicured hands, shooting a grin at the madman. “You know, I never heard the end of that one, actually,” Phaedrus admitted, popping the little tart into his mouth and chewing. “Something about a spoon?” THE DASHING BAQI How did he always get strung up into this shit? Two terrified eyes stared out over a pink veil, wide ’n trapped like a deer’s. The rest of him was equally frozen, practically iced onto the floor. No way. No fuckin’ way this was real. He couldn’t believe he was doin’ this kinda… what the hell was wrong with southern people? People were partin’ round him — ladies, guys, he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue. He’d given up tryin’ to guess, otherwise his head would screw off ’n roll at his feet. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this, not in a hundred years, nuh. The getup was itchy. Felt like he had a rash on his unmentionables and his mentionables — practically anywhere that he was wearin’ the awful pink stuff. He’d found it in some kinda exotic shop, whatever the hell that meant, and when the shopkeeper looked down his nose at ‘im he gibbered and practically ran out. Didn’t matter though, ‘cuz he stole it the night of. I mean, there were plenty of ‘em, and it’s not like he’d be— he’d be keepin’ [/i]the thing, so who was it hurting, really?[/i] ‘Cept his own damn pride. The djinn winced. It’s important, he told himself, for the hundredth-thousandth-weren’t-enough-numbers-to-even-count-to time. Somehow it didn’t feel any more right. Every time some guy gave him a funny sidelong look he wanted to just swirl around ’n book it, book it right outta that crazy town and run ‘till he found a place that made sense. But it was Galena Barrillus’ party, and — and Galena was an important lady, and if he’d learned anythin’ from the Moghul, the richest were the most batshit. So he’d have to play along with the little crazy game, stuff a couple oranges in his chest, ’n smile like he wasn’t ‘bout to crack all his teeth. One thing was for sure, though. ’S much as he wanted to get good with the Ordos, he wasn’t shaving his beard. Baqi patted it to make sure it was still there under the pink, fluttery, bedazzled shit of a veil. Hadn’t been a bad idea for more’n one reason — leastways people could only remember half his face, yeah? It fluttered as he breathed in ’n out, in ’n out, little nervous puffs that sent it stickin’ to his nose. He’d done up his eyes in charcoal — well, he’d tried, only one side got lopsided, so he had to put more on the other, and then that side got lopsided too, so now he looked like the kinda hooker even the down-n-out ran away from. Didn’t help that his chest was real hairy. A band of shimmery fabric wound tight ‘round his torso, puffin’ out here ’n there and surrounded by a dark shag. He shoved two oranges in there, but it only made it look worse, really, and one kept shootin’ off to the side funny. Hanging down from his skinny hips was a purple skirt that was way too long for him — damn southerners, bein’ freaky tall — and kept tangling on his sandals ’n billowing open at the slit so people got a nice look at his skinny, hairy leg. Yeah, real sexy. “Shit.” It happened again, and he hissed under his breath as he stumbled, hoistin’ it up again. This time he just held it up ’n waddled, bitin’ his lip, tryin’ to look past the weird looks ’n ignore the fact conversations stopped as he passed. Fuck this. I’m too sober to deal with this shit. There was wine everywhere, only he hated the stuff, and it didn’t do the job nearly fast enough. What he needed right now was one of the guy’s — what’d he call it? Happy juice. Yeah, and a biscuit. His stomach growled as he thought ‘bout it, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day — not with his guts all up in tangles after stealin’ something again, and worryin’ about the party, ’n impressions and… it wasn’t fair, none of it. He didn’t know anything about this. Last time he’d been to a party like this — well, not that he’d ever been to a party like this — but last time he’d been up with a buncha fancies, the Head Priest got his head cracked, a fistfight broke at the table, ’n all the slums in Eldahar were punchin’ each other out for free food. For a moment of paralyzing fear he wondered if the Moghul would here — somehow, someway… isn’t that what they did? Drink a lot and wreck the country at parties? — and then in a second wind of hope, if that meant Sabe would be here too, bodyguarding… Nah. As he looked ‘round he didn’t see anyone remotely resembling Sabe or Orion either — though he’d never know, not in these getups, and the Moghul had long enough hair for a lady. A new fear sprouted itself in him — what if he bumped into a girl, apologized, ’n looked up and saw one green eye, one blue, all sparkling mad, all evil… No. Orion hasn’t been seen anywhere, even before you left, the djinn reminded himself, taking a deep breath. Maybe someone up and whacked him, finally. Or maybe he’s off in the islands somewhere, with a buncha ladies. Yeah. He took a steadying breath, eyes flickering out in search of the food table. Yeah, that’s probably it. A servant passed by with a plate stacked fulla some little skewer things — but swept by before he could take one, goin’ to attend a buncha old men that looked like they were passin’ a bucket of kidney stones. Oh well, too bad, leastways he saw where he’d come from, and— Not too far, past some clusters of people, one of ‘em in a bandana, one of ‘em a redhead in a bronze mask — there was food. Stacked high, looked like there were a buncha tart things… Baqi hurried, draggin’ up his skirts — but before he could get too far someone stomped him, caught ‘im right at the hems, and the djinn stumbled, yelping; took him a second to hit the floor, and an orange shot outta his band top. The other one mushed unpleasantly under him, started leaking. “Shit!” Someone was apologizing, red-faced, stammerin’— but he didn’t hear ‘im, groping around on the floor for the rolling orange. It skittered ‘round people’s feet and around dresses, rolling on the slippery marble. He was on hands ’n knees, and the slit on his side skirt was wide open ’n fluttering. “Shit— hey, I’m sorry lady, I lost my tit—“ his tan fingers scrambled in the dirt as he tried to ignore the cold liquid tricklin’ down his chest ’n staining the top — how was he gonna get that off? — and finally clenched ‘round the escaped orange, grateful that the veil hid his red face. His hand bumped against someone’s shoe, and he slowly picked up the fruit and stuffed it into his…. bra, coughing as he looked up, tryin’ to ignore the face peering down at him. “…Sorry.” |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Jul 24 2015, 01:29 AM Post #12 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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Ylsa ((Owen O'Zilia)) It had been about sixty years, but Jool still made a damn fine Owen O'Zilia. It had been challenging, sure, to transform her tiny self into a male again, one that had been at least a foot taller and a bit less narrow, but luckily he had been willowy enough that Ylsa could pull off his old clothes. She'd had to tailor the maroon sleeves and legs of his matching shirt and trousers, hem up his sweeping cloak a bit, but that was the least of the issue. All the bosom-binding and pant-stuffing was a far cry from comfortable. The hat, of course though -- the hat made it all worth it, a rakish thing with a slightly-crooked brim and a jaunty white plume tucked into the band, she wore it on a bit of an angle to add to her swarthy man-charm. Her hair could have been another problem, but Owen had had long silver hair too, so all she needed was to tie it back. "How about it?" She did an excited twirl for Kirk, who sat upon his tree trunk, half-lidded eyes and tongue slightly sticking out. He blinked once in response. Ylsa deadpanned. "Smashing." She turned around to the mirror above her cosmetic things and arranged her face in her most debonair Owen impression, lowering her voice half an octave. "'If I told you your body was beautiful, would you hold it against me?'" But she couldn't take herself seriously and laughed at her reflection, voice like the peal of a contagiously joyful silver bell. The cats began purring simultaneously, and Bones the fox rolled into his back and wagged his tail. Even Kirk was to close his eyes in relaxation. Ylsa saw the reflection of her warmly lit little cottage, comfortably cluttered, old, soft furniture and happy dozing animals, and for a blissful moment felt so incredibly grateful. She smiled and kept it in her sight, her gaze like that of an adoring mother looking upon the faces of her sleeping children. "How nice," She spoke gently, clasping her hands together. "I think I'll bring some of this love to the party." When she had made sure everything was in order for the night, donned her mask, and locked everything up securely, Ylsa walked all the way to her destination, humming contentedly. ----------------- ((Owen's theme #yoloswag and sorry in advance for breaking the fourth wall)) She arrived just after the other guests, but wasn't concerned with being late. Her mask, a simple, worn white porcelain piece with red-lined eyes and another ornate red eye carefully painted upon its forehead, disguised her unforgivably-girlish face and she was pretty sure she looked the part of the somewhat promiscuous, wildly carefree -- indeed, rather careless -- Owen O'Zilia. She added a bit of swagger to her step, strutting for all intents and purposes. "Hem-hem, ser, name?" Ylsa stopped in a wide, easy stance and flicked the corner of her cape dramatically. That's right: cool. Also sort of a jackass. "Owen the Obnoxious," Ylsa couldn't resist making fun of her previous-self's arrogance and absurdity. "Right here in Madrid, my good lady." "Hem-hem, thank you ser--" "Simply fabulous," She swiftly brushed by the attendant, patting his cheek as she did so. An incredible mishmash of people crowded the darling garden. Ylsa broke character for a few moments to admire the open, airy space. The little golden lights could have been fireflies -- or spirits. It made her a little wistful, made her remember the lantern festivals back home. Once, very long ago while still incorporeal, she had tried to catch one. Over and over she had tried: with her wispy wrappings, her hands, her hair. But she never caught it. Eventually she had figured it out, with a small measure of sadness, that sometimes you couldn't catch light. Sometimes all you could do was admire the way it touched you. Her thoughts, a thousand years old and away, yet so very present, were cut short like a hand severing a smoke stream, and floated away just as gently. She became aware that she had stepped on something, and that it had fallen around and by her legs. She stumbled a bit, in a momentary dumb shock. "Oh..! Oh my goodness... I'm sorry!" She broke character to lean down and help them up, rather embarrassed that she had trodden on someone's foot while lost in thought. "Are you--...?" Then, suddenly, she went back again, to another similar situation, but only a year or so passed. In Ashoka, at the Moghul's dig. Again her face, though hidden by her mask, broke into a jubilant smile. She hadn't seen him since then, and though she had not missed him -- she was too fond of him to miss him -- she had been wondering about him. Hoped he had been all right, and hoping that one day he might pop up on her doorstep or show up at her market stall. She pulled off her mask so that he might recognize her. "Baqi, sweetheart! Isn't it miraculous how we always bump into each other like this? Are you okay? I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention." She took his hand, helping him up and moving in to hug him before seeing the squashed orange in the very badly colored cropped top, and the other whole one in his hand. She tried not to laugh. "Oh, your boobs -- you look like a bleedin' Picasso." Nakara and Taras Clearly the poor dope between the siblings had never had a date -- or maybe just not a date this good. The two were in the middle of inviting him to one of the guest rooms for a ménage-a-trois when he finally broke free of them, and at just that moment they were approached. Interesting pair. Nakara and Taras crowded in next to each other, Taras flapping his fan in front of his face to hide his expression. "Couples, eh?" They each examined their prospective partners, Taras homing in on "Bastion"'s fiery disposition and stalwart confidence. There was a woman under there, a woman who knew what she was about. A strong one. He took the proferred arm like it was a challenge. "Bring it on. Five says you can't wear me out." For her part Nakara was very curious about and weirdly attracted to the other, apparently classier "Jenna". There in that moment she actually kind of did want to dance, even though she hated it. And obviously she also wanted to see how far she could push his buttons. She smirked and took up his hand and carefully jerked him a bit closer. "Let me know if you get.... worn-out." She took (Jared??) to an empty space that was appropriate for dancing, and took his waist and tugged him just a bit closer than most might find comfortable. "Mind if I call you 'Cinnamon'?" |
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| Sophia | Jul 25 2015, 01:28 PM Post #13 |
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High Inquisitor of Ashoka
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TOTALLY NOT GOZRIK KRAUSWICH One thing was certain in life, having googly eyes stuck to your arse did get uncomfortable. And that was nothing compared to the fake tongue he also had stuck there. It had taken many minutes, and many mirrors but the result was wonderful. What was the point of a chapless skirt otherwise? From the front, nice, demure, sensible. A pretty purple skirt. Sure, he had sewn a grinning face onto it in yellow. A face with an eyepatch. And dreadlocks. And a cigar. He did not know who it was, but they seemed handsome. For tonight, he was not Gozrik Krauswich! Would Gozrik Krauswich have painted the words STONKING GREAT TITS on his chest over a rather small bra. Turns out he really struggled to fill those cups. Also he was so much better at taking these things off than putting them on. He maaaaaay have resorted to welding it shut. Which had required attaching metal to it. That would explain the reason why there were a few scorch marks on it. He had gotten distracted. No Gozrik would not do that! He would also not have a handbag, which was really convenient! He loved his handbag, and was going to get underwear made out of the same rich Morriamian leather, it was just divine. Even better he had two handbags! He was using them as shoes. A third carried his cigars, booze, guns, bombs and an assortment of dolls. Upon entering the party he made his way immediately to the drinks. A table, just laid out. For him? How kind? He picked up a large bowl of something, threw the ladle aside and downed it. "Excuse me, kind sir?" He paused, placing the bowl down softly, raising a hand to the intruder to wait whilst he wiped his mouth and put two whole shot glasses into his mouth. "Nowtasir" he spoke through a mouthful of glass, and whatever they contained sloshed over his lip, dribbling slightly down his chin beneath his non eyepatched eye. He grinned warmly, before spitting out one glass. Much better. "I awm- awwwm" he rearranged the remaining glass "Am the handmaiden to our host." he decided he did not like the glass, and spat it directly at the idiot. "If you have any problems with me, take it up with Gallyemma" at which point he turned around and bent over. There was a pause. Dammit. Always the way. "JUST A MOMENT!" he called back and gritted his teeth, before letting out what he must say with his most impressive fart to date. It was titanic, thunderous. If the gods themselves could scream, shout and howl they would have nothing on this. His pretty black ass was, once again, proven superior to any god. Third time this week. "I THINK SHE LIKES YOU" --- Sophia Orjtarn She did not notice that someone had walked up to her until they spoke. She was ashamed, she should have been paying more attention. The woman dressed as a man was almost close enough to stab her. Let her try. See how far she got. She was a little shocked and taken aback by what actually happened. "You want to dance with me?" she asked, taking the hand offered gingerly and almost being pulled away, although not before those gentle lips had briefly touched her skin. She supposed she should be grateful the woman did not recoil. Her hands, however much she cleaned them up, were those of a killers. She was glad, the woman seemed quite charming, and within moments Sophia found herself being, well, happy. She could feel one arm snake around her back, holding her as their fingers entwined. Their rhythm was flawless. Sophia had been a good dancer, since way back. Her eyes were... They were... Were they in a room right now? She felt her iron hard muscles relax and unwind as he hand rested on this strangers hip. She caught herself and became aware of how silly this was. She had killed how many people exactly this way? She would stop and walk away right now. Well, another minute. How could someone like this be a threat? She seemed to lovely. "How come indeed?" she purred "It might just be we move in different circles" she was lost in those eyes "I tend to be a little dangerous for most. Is that a problem for you?" she asked, pulling herself in a little closer "So, who are you pretty one? Enthral me" |
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| Shiro | Jul 26 2015, 01:57 AM Post #14 |
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Valkoinen Metsästäjä
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Shiro sighed. It was something between a low exhale and a sharp huff. She stood hunched over her table, palms flat on the table. She stared at the missive laying before her. She had read it, and read it again. She examined it roughly thirty times. If I don't go, then they will think of me a prude. She huffed again. The neko paced back and forth. Debating heavily. It was a masquerade, so that means she would have to go in...normal clothing. She knew that she stood different when it comes to that whole ideal. She had always dressed in her hunting leather gear, always. Shiro stamped her foot on the floor, as if that would give her an answer. Not only would Soto's royalty would be there, royalty from all of the other nations would be attending as well. In truth, Shiro hated royalty. All those hoity-toity types prancing about discussing affairs of blah blah blah words. The catgirl stopped caring ages ago. She would never be fit to rule a country. She had met Galena at one point, but that night the councilor had gotten herself so stumble down drunk that it didn't really matter. But now every single one of the rulers were gathering there, a cesspit of politics . Shiro cursed at it. The catgirl propped open some floorboards, she dragged up a hidden chest. She didn't want to open it. But she undid the latch and flung open the lid with a *whump*. What was held inside was a small fortunes worth of coin and various bits and baubles, and one dress. She lifted it up and gazed upon the cloth, at one point she had figured herself to go out and purchase something that she could wear formally, but it quickly just became another item of worth in this cottage. Shiro sighed once more. No turning back. --- Shiro quickly changed into the dress. She had altered the already beautiful attire to accommodate a hood that she had designed to fit with the dress. The hood had a beautiful little flower on one side and other accessories. Shiro's Dress Once the Neko finished dressing, she wore the blue gown wonderfully. She wrapped her mothers scarf around her neck once more, and covering her head with the modified hood. She adjusted a few extra accessories. She slid on a pair of matching elbow length gloves, attached one of her two black steel daggers to her inner thigh, where the weapon was concealed, sheathed, and easy enough to access. The second dagger slung at her hip, as usual, thus creating the illusion that she wasn't armed with more than just one dagger. Damn, she enjoyed hiding her daggers. And the entire visage was complete! ...Shiro felt like a complete and utter ass. To hell with it, let's get this over with she thought as she exited her cottage and mounted her horse, she took off in a gallop. Shiro knew the forest well and could be in Madrid quickly. She was committed now. --- Shiro finally arrived at the Galena estate, appearing to be only half fashionably late. The neko dismounted from her horse, grabbing the reigns and leading it to a post for hitching. She gave the horse a few gently rubs along it's neck and let it rest. Shiro turned and re-adjusted her whole get-up. All the while doing a mental pep talk to get her mentally prepared and ready for the night ahead. She took another quick breathe and steeled herself. We are in for one wild night. The Catgirl entered the Galena estate. There was a giant mural, pretty it sure was, but the Neko wasn't here to stare at walls...even though that would seem more fun than coalesce with all the people, she breezed past it, taking in the calculated beauty of the Councilors estate. It was massive. Unnecessary. There were already a whole amplitude of people already intermingling amongst themselves, it was a little off-putting to see all the males waltzing about clumsily in dresses, and the females strut about in pants. Everyone looked a bit stiff, as if the alcohol hasn't set in yet. Maybe Shiro wasn't late after all? As she blended in with the crowd, she did recieve many glances and double takes. She noticed almost right away at this. Something was up. Instantly Shiro was hit with many sounds and smells. The smells of delicious cooked food forced her stomach to grumble in protest. Shiro's tail flicked about under her dress, yearning. The sounds she heard was a merry band of musicians and chatter. Time to mingle. She wandered about, feeling very self conscious of herself. She saw Thaleia dancing about gracefully as ever, even dressed as a man, with a black haired stranger that she must have known. Shiro felt a pang of unease being surrounded by all these strangers. To make things worse, she was generally shorter than all of them, so things weren't looking up as they say. A servant approached Shiro with a bow, offering a variety of drinks to choose from. The Neko fished out a glass full of wine. She made a mental note to keep the drinks down to a minimum, lest something wild happens, and she doesn't have her wits about her. Shiro sipped from her glass lightly, and continued to glance about the dance room. She laid eyes upon Miste-LADY Phaedrus? Shiro almost choked on her wine at the sight. He really outdid himself this time...and appearing to already have drained a few to many of Galena's wine barrels, singing merrily along with a few others. Shiro gave a little wave in his direction, not sure if he'd notice. The neko moved on, leaving him be to have his merriment. There were so many people here. Shiro hadn't seen the hostess, or was it host, yet? The catgirl knew that Galena was around here somewhere, gallivanting with her guests. The aforementioned guests were giving Shiro many looks, which made the little neko panic even harder. She heard a few whispers from the onlookers, apparently she looked stunning in blue...or just in this dress in general. Shit, someone's probably going to want to ask me for a dance I'll bet. |
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| Aniketos | Jul 27 2015, 04:29 PM Post #15 |
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Unter friedlichen Umständen fällt der kriegerische Mensch über sich selber her.
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✥ aniketos Hours before, Aniketos had left Shrista at home with a smile and a kiss, promising to see her at Councillor Barillus' mansion. "Xanthus and I have been working on a big surprise for this one," he told her with a wink. He'd made to leave but then...well, they'd had to have a few more kisses also, and he'd needed to pat her firmly on the behind and then he was ready to go. He and Xanthus spent several hours at his house drinking as the maids prepared them, binding them up until it hurt to breathe and powdering them until not an inch of their skin was to be seen. Thus they arrived at the party already thoroughly sloshed, practically falling out of Xanthus' carriage in an avalanche of wigs and skirts. They were late – the maids had taken quite a while because they'd been drunk too – but that just meant that everyone would see their grand arrival. Well, relatively grand. Xanthus' skirts got snagged on the rosebushes on the way into the garden, and he nearly fell over as he tried to dislodge himself, snorting with laughter. Aniketos stood by, laughing to the point of tears, which he had to daintily dab away so as not to ruin his make up. They made it through eventually and were greeted by the sight of a great mass of guests, all chatting and dancing and eating and drinking under a faery-like array of lights. "Oooh, it's so pretty!" squealed Xanthus in a falsetto which set Aniketos off into another bout of helpless laughter. They swept into the crowd, drawing eyes as they went. It was hard not to notice them: standing side by side, they required a berth of about six feet because they wore such enormous and brightly-coloured panniers. It was a good thing that this party was happening outside because each of them would have had to turn sideways to get through a door. Not only were their dresses huge, but they were fancy as hell: decked out in the finest embroidery money could buy, covered in frills and fringes of lace and dyed in expensive shades of blue and purple. The dresses were cut low to show off their shoulders – which looked perhaps a bit more convincing on slim Aniketos than on the burlier Xanthus. They'd also managed so modest cleavage, which had been created by squishing up their chests with enough stuffing to fill a pillow. They both wore powdered wigs and their skin was whitened until it looked like porcelain. Their lips were red, their eyelashes long and fluttering, and they each had a tasteful beauty mark pencilled above the upper lip. Reeking of perfume and fanning themselves prettily, Aniketos and Xanthus swept through the crowd, greeting plenty of people who they knew but who couldn't quite recognise them. He saw Sophia dancing with a hilariously pretty woman-turned-man and blew her a kiss. He caught sight of Shrista, dressed up as a fox and spinning wildly in a stranger's arms and was unable to catch her eye, though the sight of her made him smile. But then of course, there was that voice– "Aniketos! Oooh! Aniketos!" A pile of lace came rustling towards him and swept him up in an excited hug. Aniketos had only just been let go and barely got a moment to register that his assailant was Arsenios Priapos before he was met with an enormous, unrestrainable bosom and a crushing embrace. "OH, COUNCILLOR ANIKETOS! WHAT A JOY IT IS TO FINALLY MEET YOU! I HAVE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT YOU!" Aniketos was released and he reeled away, realising that he'd left a powdery face-print on Lysistrata's chest. "All good things I hope," he said dazedly, registering an unnervingly vast smile on the woman's face. He couldn't help but feel that she was somehow happy and immensely angry all at the same time. "OH YOU KNOW HOW IT IS," she thundered, "ALL PUBLICITY IS GOOD PUBLICITY." Aniketos stared around, a little bewildered to find that Xanthus was nowhere to be found. Then he heard his voice, booming out a favourite drinking song in competition with the honeyed pluckings of Galena's hired musicians: "And we'll roooolll the old chariot along, and we'll rooolll-" "COME, DANCE WITH ME," cried Lysistra with sudden boisterous glee, and she swept Aniketos away, who caught sight of Priapos opening his mouth with the beginning of a protest. Far away, Xanthus' voice triumphantly chanted: "And we'll all fall in behind!" Aniketos wasn't too steady on his feet but that didn't matter because Lysistrata was such a good dancer. He wondered how she'd gotten so good in the men's position as her hand clutched firmly at his bodiced waist, tossing him into twirl after twirl. He felt like a mop in the experienced hands of a barmaid. After a few minutes, when Aniketos was so dizzy that the lights were spinning, Lysistrata commented with a rougish wink and a broad smile, "ARSENIOS NEVER TOLD ME YOU MADE SUCH A PRETTY LADY." "I'm sure he's contemplated it though," said Aniketos, unable to stifle a laugh. "AND RIGHTLY SO!" And she swirled him around and around, and he just laughed and laughed until she released him abruptly at the end of the song. Stumbling away from this scene, he practically ran into an uncomfortable-looking individual in a blue dress. Whoever this was, it looked kind of like they were cheating: shouldn't she be in men's get-up? Also, were those cat ears real? Aniketos had a sudden urge to reach up and grab on to them, but he restrained himself. He wasn't that drunk. Realising that he'd been swaying on the spot and staring at her for several moments, he said, "For the love of all the gods, don't dance with her." He twisted around and pointed at Lysistrata, who was now giving her husband the same rough treatment. "She practically broke my neck. It was rather fun though. Maybe you should dance with her." He grinned amiably at her. "Also, I'm Councillor Aniketos Hesperés. Who are you? Do you want a dance? Even though we're both in dresses?" ✥ kist Kist hadn't been invited, but it was easy to crash the party. She'd been set on going from the moment she'd heard it was happening, thinking that, if she had to, she could transform into a moth and fly there. But that wasn't necessary: she just strutted right up to the house, slipped past the rosebushes and she was in, amongst all the amusingly-dressed people and pretty hanging lights. "Free food and booze!" she sang prancing through the hustle and bustle, "And I've got the best outfit of them all!" It had all come together somehow, and now she looked bloody fantastic: a buttoned up coat with shiny brass buttons, tight white pants, little black shoes and a tricorn hat perched on her head. Her hair – now grown long – was tied behind her head. Since she hadn't much of a chest to speak of, she hadn't really bothered to bind it and she still managed to look convincingly like a boy. Her black-spotted wings were laid out with pride over her back: she wasn't about to hide who she was, especially since the bluish glow on her skin made her so remarkable anyways. She made a bee-line for the table with all the food, snagging a glass of wine on the way and downing it in one go. Someone else had had the idea to raid the place for food: a silver-haired girl was snatching up all the cheese she could get. At some point, in their feeding frenzy, their hands landed on the same bit of cheese. Kist, her mouth full of food, growled at her playfully, but let her have the cheese. Then she swallowed, kissed the girl abruptly on the cheek and moved past her, just in time to hear the musical intonations of a familiar voice: "There once was a vampire called Mabel–" Kist straightened up, a pasty clutched in one hand, and stared around wildly. Could it really be–? For a moment she thought she must have imagined it, because she didn't see him at first. But no, there he was, tall and scruffy as ever, her favourite satyr. "Fooooojooooeee!" she shrieked, and she launched herself forwards to collide with him like a cannonball. She squeezed him tight about the waist, squealing incoherently. She completely unaware of the fact that he might have been having a conversation with someone. She was also completely unaware that her father, who she hadn't seen in quite some time, was letting loose an enormous fart not far away from them. Finally, she came up for air, staring up at the enormous satyr with her arms still wrapped around him and saying, "Oh man, Foojoe, where have you been? I missed you so much!" Edited by Aniketos, Aug 10 2015, 11:30 AM.
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| Galena | Jul 28 2015, 03:20 PM Post #16 |
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Thy sins, paid in blood...
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The Dandy Well, she was glad that he enjoyed the doilies. They had never been her thing, but the little flowers embroidered on them had looked rather...anatomical, and at the time of spotting them - merely browsing as she passed through the market - it had struck her that they seemed right up his alley, so to speak. In all honesty she sort of wished he'd stop calling her Ser Barillus, it only made her think of her uncle who near two years hence, had been deposed in shame from his position of the Master of War for the country but none other than Councillor Hesperés. He had never been a particularly pleasant man, and she was not sorry that someone had put an end to his abuse of power. Still, if she was thinking of it, undoubtedly it had occurred in the thoughts of others. "I suppose that if he spake in such boring tones, verily he was not a particularly cunning linguist, then. I do hope the doilies were not altogether too churlish and presumptuous of me to send to thee." A soft laugh uttered from her lips as he mentioned the petunias, the barest shake of her head setting the plume in her hat to bobbing. "They are quite well Lady Faye. Very..resilient plants, petunias." Catching the young man's eye she winked, then spluttered with laughter at the expression, delicately touching his shoulder with her fingertips. "Prithee, forgive me. he didst manage to trip on mine steps, over there see, by the doors? A little too much of the spirits, and away he did tumble...right into the flower bed." The petunias were fine, but they'd looked a little sad for a few days, despite her coaxing. She couldn't remember the last time someone had crushed her plants with their arse...Master Etherone did not count, that had been a whole bush and he'd fallen with all the grace of a limpid starfish when he came down from the top of the wall. Her gaze flicked back to him when he stopped talking, his face stricken with something bordering on the look she imagined that certain scholars got when they stumbled on the solution to their convoluted problems. "Lady Faye? Art thou quite alright?" The satyr swept away in a cloud of gauze and lily of the valley, much to her chagrin, to harass the other guests. She liked Foojoe's company, but she couldn't remember actually putting him on the guest list. In fact, she thought she'd been quite adamant that he wasn't to be allowed into the grounds for this exact reason. The growing exasperation was evident in her voice as she remarked; "Ah, thou hath made his acquaintance before, I see." It was, she thought, rather difficult to forget, when the briefest meeting with the goat-man tended to be laced with disaster and utter chaos. Her face was a perfect mask of serenity, that that could be seen below the blue winged one across her eyes at least. Bow lips curved into a smile as Phaedrus bustled after the goat. "One must be a little skewed to deal with such unfailing optimism and...lewdness." Truly, one had a capacity that could be reached when it came to the Satyr's company. It really depended how mad he was. Then again, had he the wealth and riches of the Emperor of Essiria, people would have simply said he was eccentric. One could not be mad if they were rolling in it. "Ah, do not trouble thyself. Verily I should not drink too much, it is mine thought to keep a clear head." And there was the matter of the plant, the odd flickering light within it seemingly warming the glass from the inside. Yes, she would look it in great detail...and perhaps plan an expedition to go up to the Mulciber, if it did not cause her to wilt. How Phaedrus had managed she couldn't fathom. "Please, do not tarry on my part. I must find somewhere safe to put this for the time being. A pleasure to meet you, Ser. Perhaps I will see you at my next...gathering?" She took her leave of him, bowing briefly and sauntering her way calmly through the milling guests back towards the dancers. Perhaps she could grab something to eat on the way...and stop that damned Satyr before he started singing 'The Hedgehog Can't Not Be Buggered At All.' *** The Satyr was already making himself quite well known to a couple of dashing young gentlemen by the table, after prancing his way through the dancers and clonking one woman-man with his lute. He'd stopped for a moment, selecting a small meat pie and examining it critically, before nibbling all the pastry from it, then chewing his way appreciatively through the chilled meat filling. He swallowed as the fiery-haired siren with the wicked yellow eyes sidled up beside him, shooting her a broad, knowing smirk, dusting his greasy fingers on his gauzy pantaloons. A few notes tinkled as he caressed the strings thoughtfully. "What a shame, it's quite a good one." He cleared his throat, probing a tooth with his tongue, then belted out the limerick with all the bardic tones of high chant, turning the filth into something...well no less filthy really. High Chant just sounded impressive. "There once was a vampire named Mabel, Whose periods were highly unstable, Once every full moon, She'd take out a spoon, And drink herself under the table!" A small circle of silence opened up around them, the sort of ripple effect as it spread, heads turning, eyes gleaming, hands covering mouths with embarrassed titters. Someone guffawed. It was punctuated by a sudden sound, unmistakably that of flapping buttcheeks producing a titanic flatulence from somewhere over by the tables. The effect seemed to shatter then, chatter bubbling back up, nervous laughs and disgusted snorts or offended glances quickly torn away, for those of the more sensitive disposition. If flesh had been crafted into a bullet, and then fired at him, the fey girl making a beeline for him right then wouldn't have needed to have his name stamped on her for the noise she made parted people like a whore displaying her wares. He blinked, azure gaze seeking in the direction too late, before she collided with his waistline, banging his back into the table and scattering a neatly arranged tower of glasses in a tinkle of crystal. "Kist?! It IS you!" Laughing merrily the big man let his lute hang freely from the strap across his shoulder, and held her by the forearms, looking her over appreciatively. She seemed to be doing spectacularly well for herself since the last time he'd seen her. Marvellous! "Well now, if we aren't looking especially swanky. Here, I was just about to tell this lady a new ditty. Maybe you know this one?" One hand rested with fingers splayed theatrically over his hairy chest, the glittering brassiere sloshing as the makeshift breasts shifted - it was a wonder what one could do with a couple of pigs bladders full of water - his voice rolling like a thunderstorm: "Now down in the valley of Chmiel Lived a woman who loved to reveal, With her curtains well drawn Standing bare as a fawn, She'd do this really neat trick with an eel." He cackled, and hoisted Kist up onto his shoulders with apparently little effort, and passed her a pinched bottle of..something, from the table. Didn't really stop to check the label. "This calls for a celebration! Doubly celebrant!" *** Galena stopped at the end of one of the tables, placing the jar down as she perused the array of food and drink laid out by her staff. Well, they'd done a good job. She couldn't remember giving the go ahead to jellied eels but what the hey, it wasn't like she was interrogating the catering staff. All the same, she carefully avoided that one. Her attention was distracted from an unappetizing meat construction that she could only assume was a partridge, so stuffed was it with other things that had probably been alive at some point before it was roasted, to watch the arrival of her fellow councillor with some faint amusement. She almost felt sorry for him when the Lady Priapos gathered him into such a hug as had been demonstrated to her that his face left a fine imprint on her chest, perhaps just the barest hint of purple showing through the thick powder while he sucked air. Her lips quirked into a smile as she watched them dance, gaze flitting from one whirling pair to another- And almost reeled at the sudden flash of jealousy that lit her mossy eyes with green fire. If she'd moved, perhaps frost would have cracked from her limbs. The grass under her feet wilted and shriveled in response the raw savagery of it, and she pulled her eyes away as someone touched her elbow, chattering, retreated at the look on her face. Well, that was fine. It wasn't entirely irrational to feel a little...irritable, to see Sophia so chummy with that painfully gorgeous....dryad? She half turned, sneaking another look over her shoulder, pulling the brim of her hat low. There was probably a damned fine reason she'd not gotten involved with anyone since her husband's disappearance, and not everyone had said that she was an innocent party in it. It might be believed right then, to see her positively menacing a cherry plum pie as she cut a slice far larger than she actually wanted. It was going to go right to her hips. It's fine. Perfectly fine. They may all do as they please. The bastards. Sod them all. She found it hard to care when Foojoe's braying laugh jarred her ear, his voice richly rising with 'And you can do it with a snail if you slow to a crawl, but the hedgehog-' Well she could do just that if she really wanted to. Except that she didn't consider herself a tramp. Raising her chin defiantly, Galena shoved a forkful of the dessert into her mouth, scowling as she watched the dancers enjoying themselves. Bugger it, all she needed was her lyre and some dark poetry and she might as well be as wretched as Sappho herself. it still didn't stop her eating almost half a pie. Well she needed the sugar and anyway- ...Did that dwarf just insult her? The dryad pursed her lips, not deigning to dignify that one with a notable reaction. Maybe she could pay one of the staff to go and spill a tray of drinks on the pair...oh but how petty...and there was still a lot of pie left in the case. Hells there was a whole table full of sweet things. Well never mind. She looked at the rather roughly dressed Dara helping herself to the cheese, one eyebrow raising. If she wasn't careful she would be setting a world record for constipation. "Enjoying the party?" *** The Prince and the Maiden Fair (Indulge in some music.) Taking his words as a challenge, a touch of flame smoldered in Bast's eyes, a smirk curling her lip. "Oh aye? I'll tak' that wager, princess. Let's go!" Jared would have been proud, if she had taken his hand and walked in a stately manner to the dancers. Until she started dancing anyway, then he probably would have swallowed his tongue and fainted or some pansy shit that he was always doing. Anyway there was no stately walk. No gliding down the green royally, no butterflies farting out of her arse when the wind tried to grab her kilt, no lines of bowing fawning eedjits. No, she grabbed his hand and with a laugh, turned and ran across the grass, practically dragging her partner along with her. Whatever she was supposed to be, clan chief or...hells she didn't care, they were meant to be wild up in the mountains. She could give him that much anyway. "What's yer name, chicken?" Bastion shouldered roughly past a mountain of pink lace that probably contained a penis in there somewhere, both figurative and literal, ignoring the squeaks as she wormed with some difficulty through two pansies with pants tight enough to show everything and then squeezing past the bearded bellydancer with too much coarse chestnut hair all over his torso. She did a slight doubletake there, since from the corner of her eye it had looked like instead of feet he had hooves...but no, there were only a pair of fine boots when she glanced back, and sparkly blue heels, one pair swiftly vanishing as the tiny admiral was hoisted up onto the belly-dancer's shoulders. She sort of wished she'd been allowed to come as a girl and wear sparkly heels, even if they did kill her feet. What was so great about heels that simple sandals couldn't do she didn't know but they did have a weird appeal. Ah well, call him or her a bitch and have done with it. She tapped one of the minstrels as they ran past, shouted "Play us a reel from MURRIM!" much to his sudden acute deafness. "Are yeh ready? Let's show 'em what a real dance is, eh?" Grinning, she set her hand on the tall dark stranger's waist at arms length as they began, speeding til they were a whirling dervish of arms and legs that ended in a quite uncivilized display of simply holding one another's hands and spinning around, legs kicking up a storm. Somewhere along the line she pulled him close, hip to hip, their fingers locked tight as an angkarian clam, and skipped, turning round and around as people fought to get out of their way. A bright, breathless laugh left her, bouncing from heel to toe, the rest of the dancers blurring into one colourful mass. Now she was enjoying herself. *** Jhaereth, for his part, was trying not to gag at the lack of refinement his companion was showing. There was simply no way in hell he was going to dance in her uncouth barbarian style. He'd probably fall and break his neck in these heels anyway. As for his partner...well, he didn't find her unappealing. Her mushroom-pale skin and midnight hair was the perfect opposite for his own monochrome appearance, and even her eyes were pleasantly complimentary to his own. Colours were important, it was all part of style. And you had to have style, because if you didn't you were...well what did one do with themselves? A soft laugh rolled from his thin lips, snake eyes glittering as she pulled them together. So it was to be that sort of game, was it? He hoped his partner was a little classier than his flame headed companion anyway. Naturally, he took to opportunity to mold himself against her, more than happy to battle wills with this vixen. Admittedly it bothered him a little that she was taller than him but...well he'd come to realize that humans were built a damned sight more sturdily than his fey race. It all worked out anyway. "I am not about to swoon in your arms, ser....yet." He balked as that bloody invalid went sailing crazily past, shooting her a glare that she ignored, too busy laughing with Taras to pay them any mind. At least she was a little perkier he supposed, it might make for a more interesting evening. "Oh...I suppose so, but only if I can call you Nutmeg." |
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| Dara | Jul 28 2015, 04:35 PM Post #17 |
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Dara was enjoying life, she had a plate cradled in her left arm in such a way that it was held up and flat with little effort, there were already several different cheeses added to that pile. In her right arm she held several wooden toothpicks, as many as she could fit using her fingers. The lax in her gauntlet only allowed her to have toothpicks pinched between her pointer, middle and index fingers, all gripping down onto her thumb in different angles to make cheese grabbing easier. With her five toothpick army she picked up a different cube of cheese in each, holding it up to her face in joy and examining each piece. She named them quickly, often times sounding like she made up names for the cheeses as they slowly became more ridiculous as she continued. She would then pop a few she couldn't resist into her mouth and drop the rest onto the plate, keeping the toothpick embedded in each cube. She adored the cheese and took her pick, grabbing as many as she could in her hands and taking up new toothpicks until finally, after and absurd amount of time the handlers caught onto her and stopped replacing the cups holding the toothpicks and only left the ones already embedded in the cheese. Dara scowled, rolling over the fact that she might have to ruin the cheese to get anymore. With Dara's expression darkened she moved onto consuming the cheese with toothpicks already in them, taking one after the other into her mouth and tossing the toothpick away, and if she found a particular type or name she really enjoyed, she'd stash it away onto her plate to be eaten later. She barely noticed the way her new clothes itched at her skin at this point, she had gotten used to it and distracted herself from her uncomfortability. Nor did she notice the eyes on her, the party guests whispering too and fro about the random person consuming all the cheese as if it was a rat. Very barely did she even register Bast, who had positioned herself quite close to Dara. She was picking at the fruit cubes, almost desperate for something to distract her. "...h? Oh uh...quee...." A voice slightly rose into Dara's mind, rousing it slightly but she soon suppressed it, choosing to ignore it She felt a slight smoldering sensation from the eyes on her, but she continued anyways, enjoying herself to the fullest until even the cheese with the tiny toothpicks in them ran out. A new tray was brought out to replace the cheese but not a single toothpick was speared into them. "How stupid is this..." She thought to herself. Wings came from the corner of her eyes. "Just one more..." Dara affirmed to herself. She put the end of her gauntlet into her mouth, balancing the cheese plate carefully and gently pulled her head back, fitting the glove back and more tightly onto her arm. She reached out for a fresh cheese cube, it was almost a pure ghostly white. She grabbed it with her thumb and pointer finger and then another hand comes into her attention, breaking her from her spell as she stands in shock at the scene before her. A small girl, all buttoned up and looking almost like a cosplay general was standing there, wings peeking from behind her. The girl seemed to have some remains of cheese on her fingers, meaning she had been there for a certain amount of time with Dara. She stared at Kist until the girl pulled her blue-ish hand back, growling at Dara, who was still stunned that another person had gotten quite so close. And then she moved forward, towards the frozen girl. Kist kissed her on the cheek. Dara was absolutely shocked - her mind in complete and total disarray from the act. The girl ran away, shouting some strange spell at the top of her lungs almost like a chant and squealing. Dara's mouth was agape. "That was.. a girl..? A thing.. Did that just.. Happen... Did she just... My cheese..." Only a few moments after that a voice once again brought her back to reality. "Enjoying the party?" Galena said. Dara blinked a few times, shaking her head, most likely confusing Galena. I... I need to get a hold of myself," she thought to herself, placing the tray of cheese down precariously onto the tablet and putting her left hand down palm flat on the tablet, placing all of her weight on it. A few moments pass, Dara turns her head and locks eyes with Galena, as if trying to apologize for the lack of response but then a reaction hits her. Her right hand instantly moves up, slapping the cheek she was kissed on, Dara's eyes wide and then she realizes her face. She covers her face with her hand, hiding the lower portion of her face and standing up straight. "Wh-what was it you said?" Dara asked, feigning ignorance. Her gut was churning. She looked directly at Galena who was dressed in some strange fabric-filled attire. Edited by Dara, Aug 2 2015, 08:07 PM.
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| Calliope | Aug 2 2015, 07:50 PM Post #18 |
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Goddess of Erth'netora
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"Yes," Calliope's voice was low and soft as she brought her lips close to Sophia's left ear. "Does it surprise you so?" The nymph pulled her closer in, as if trying to meld their forms together. "Problem?" She laughed, the melodious tones of her voice being carried over the music. "I believe avoiding danger is.... no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. Calliope paused to look at the reflection of her own wonder and joy reciprocated in the woman's brilliant blue eyes. Her dance partner's body was slender, clad in dark attire. With her dark hair and pale skin, the effect was quite stunning. She listened to the rising beat as her heart pounded for her, wondering if this was exactly what and how Galena made the woman feel. "How else would I ever have the pleasure of forming a new acquaintance if not by taking a tiny bit of a risk?" She winked, a playful glint in her eyes. Calliope continued to twirl Sophia around so they floated across the dance floor with the rest of the couples, yet it was almost as though it was only the two of them in the room, with everyone else having been forgotten as she kept her eyes on her partner. There was, at one point, where the dance required the couples to switch partners, only to be joined together again as the dance ensued. This they did with perfect grace. Guiding her along with gentle pulls on her waist and hand, Calliope beamed, as she truly was enjoying herself. "Private balls are far more pleasanter than public ones, don't you think? Public balls tend to be a bit... tedious... as there are too many people to please with so many eyes and ears and gossiping mouths in a single crowded room. One can hardly be allowed to be one's self. Not like this." Calliope nearly pressed her lips against Sophia, but stopped herself at the last split second. The sly smile which parted her lips suddenly turned into a cryptic one, as though she were keeping a deep, dark secret, and perhaps she was. For a moment, Calliope humored her own imagination; that she would like to hear her own name, trembling out of this woman's lips as the nymph worshiped her every contour. "Oh, my sweet," she murmured, looking at Sophia from underneath her lashes, their noses nearly touching. "I can see why she likes you." But wasn't she forgetting one small, but ever so crucial detail? This woman.... Sophia... belonged to another! It was really too bad. The Ashokan sweetheart was bound to be betrayed by the likes of her kind. Nymphs were fickle creatures, unfaithful to those they were not bonded to, if a nymph should ever allow themselves to fall into such a terrible fate. Was she to speak these words out loud and insult her dancing partner? Of course not! What good would it do to chase away such a pretty date? Before they knew it, however, the dance had ended, and Calliope bowed deeply to Sophia. When she pulled herself up from the bow, she gave her a most charming smile. "Galena sure knows how to throw a party. Do you know where she is?" She asked, feigning ignorance. "I have brought the Councilor a gift, you see. I would like to make sure that she gets it." Edited by Calliope, Aug 2 2015, 08:10 PM.
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| Phaedrus | Aug 10 2015, 01:47 AM Post #19 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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(shitty post is shitty, but i didn’t want to hold up the party any longer >__>) THE DELICATE LADY PHAE AND SER MARCEL “Oh, no.” Another girlish laugh spilt off his lips, followed by the coy brush of a fan. His smile was eclipsed by a scene of gold flowers and cavorting nymphs. “Right once more, ser. I would not invite him again,” he muttered conspiratorially out of the corner of his mouth, winking. A wing of eyeshadow shimmered at Galena, its glitter catching the torchlight. “Ser, a man of your rearing and gallantry would never be churlish to a virginal woman,” the necromancer announced, affecting a lady’s solemn denial of her husband’s dalliances. He could barely muster a straight face, lips twisting into a wicked grin. “Hm. The kettle does not call the crow black, but argues which is darker.” A titter floated past his fan. It only intensified at the horror dawning on Marcel’s face — if only slightly abated by the Councillor’s lily-white fingers upon his shoulders. “O-oh?” He blinked — then a smile hooked his full lips, became a laugh at the necromancer’s expense. “Why, I’d have brought him to have a word with my gardener. Miss Fae! And here I thought you held your spirits well!” Gods, he had often enough reeked of them. “Not the green sort,” the necromancer giggled, a slight breeze tickling the curls by his cheek. His rings glinted where they dallied at the fan. “Mm, but our gallant host forgets the great splash thereafter — the koi were rather startled, as I recall.” He shot Galena a Look, a Look entailing oh yes, I did see that — a white palla and a garden pond make for a brisk evening, and smiled demurely, one finger springing in a curl. Well, they’d both ended up swimming, at any rate. And despite Galena’s delusional insistence to the contrary, he had won that night’s wet shirt contest. And Modeste? Well, he had off and fainted for reasons hardly involving alcohol. Speaking of the devil… “Pray, Ser — you have not seen Councilor Bellamy, have you?” He hoped he’d see the fey little thing here — he’d heard no word from the estate, his letters and inquiries unanswered, the servants shrugging as much. He had a tendency to disappear, of course, what with the mad amount of work the strange little man bent himself under, but… “I should think this manner of ball would delight him. I have not seen him some months and… ah, well.” Marcel was giving him a Look that was verging on possessive, and he didn’t like it. All the better then, that he’d excused himself — devils, but he needed a fresh breath of air. The pastries made it doubly welcome. As he stared up at the bard — even in heels, the man still towered — the necromancer smirked, chewing delightedly on a tart. The man had a voice like a foghorn, a rich baritone that belted out filth with such sincerity that a grin split his face, bursting into a shrieking staccato of womanly laughter. He was… he was being serenaded by the Emperor of Esiria. What an honor! “Brav-o,” the necromancer giggled, unheeding of the horrified silence seeping around the two of them. Phaedrus clapped quietly, one hand pattering against his wine glass and sending the contents sloshing. He scarcely had a moment before a colossal fart split the nether, cracking like the whip of a thundergod — if the patrons were silent before, the racket lowered them into their graves. Blinking, the necromancer’s delicate lips popped open, yellow eyes darting towards the source of the symphony. Someone coughed. A nervous giggle broke the dead silence. Seven hells, that was impressive. Even worse than Bast’s… He stopped there, and did not pursue the thought. Blinking, the man held it at arm’s length, lest it bite and ruin the distraction of the evening. Somehow the wine came to his lips again, turning to vinegar as a girl rocketed from nowhere, throwing her skinny arms around the bard’s middle. Their delighted laughter made him flinch, staring into his wineglass. A pang of envy twisted his lips — passed as a spasmic smile, his eyes shaded. Without success, he tried to banish the image of his porch, the feeling of her legs colliding with his, the laughter and fluttering fabric… somehow another tart appeared in his hand and he inhaled it, chewing with prim aggression. While they spoke, someone complimented his dress — he barely heard, looking up with a crumby smile. The necromancer fluttered his fan over his lips, a forced coy giggle humming in his throat. “Mmm-hmm-hmm,” Phaedrus responded politely, eyelids lowering; the mountain of lace and tights complimenting him flashed a lascivious smile, undoubtedly about to remark on fitting an entire tart in ones mou— “Oh! Pardon you!” The frilly thing gasped in indignation, shooting daggers at the fleeing culprit — Phaedrus turned and jolted at the blur of fiery hair, perhaps bronze—but no—a lanky, pale man eclipsed the phantom, and soon the crowd swallowed them entire. The after-image lingered in his brain, twisted his guts. I am seeing things. The necromancer blinked after them, mouth popping open into a cherry O—but noted they made a beeline for the orchestra. When he turned around the dandy was blathering something, lace shivering around his neck. “…how rude can one be? I swear, if I were a councillor I would not permit such riff-raff… But, mph. How rude of me. I have not even introduced myself. I am Lady—“ punctuated with a powder-stiff wink, “Quentya. And who might you be?” “Taken,” the necromancer retorted more curtly than he intended. Oh, go away. I am already entertaining one needy dandy. His lips pursed; a delicate finger wrapped around a curl and let it spring poisonously by his rogue cheek. Phaedrus pointedly ignored the indignant noises coming from somewhere on his left, taking another gulp of wine. Oh, but it was doing nothing. He still felt more sober than Glede’s left pauldron. Nevermind that his cheeks were flush with more than rogue. Still, it seemed they were all well and done, now — a smile alighted on his lips again, a perfect crescent of politeness threatening to snap in two. The Emperor’s voice thundered, silencing half the ballroom — and, true to his reputation, managed to be twice as foul as the last. That was a good one. He’d have to devote it to memory. A giggle spilt off his lips, but truly, his mind had gone elsewhere, chasing the apparition that had disappeared somewhere amongst the dancers. At any rate… it hardly seemed that the big fellow needed entertainment, if the grinning pixie on his shoulders was any mark. The bottle was an ugly green (which, frankly, brought on swimming memories of a swamp and things best left buried) and left him disinclined to take a shot of it… for once. “A truly inspiring performance, your Highness.” The necromancer winked with a titter, showing off his glittering eyeshadow. “I should stay for more, but I do believe I saw someone I must have words with… do excuse me.” Somewhere along the way he snatched another glass of wine, chest taut with anxiety — the necromancer put a manicured hand over the goblet with utmost care as he bumped through the crowd, jaw clenched. Oh, no, no, no. I shan’t spill wine on this dress. The music was picking up, becoming a devious whorl of violins, a waltz for imps and grinning fae. Fabric brushed and rustled against him; the necromancer took a sip of wine as he impatiently sidestepped the trains of a woman’s dress, black and glittering like a tacky velvet galaxy. Even more distracting were the golden heels beneath them, blocky and clunky. Devils. What hideous shoes— A passing thought, and then she whorled away laughing, tearing him back to the gardens. And… Nothing. Idiotically, he felt disappointed — the same manner of unreasonable disappointment one feels after waking from a bizarre dream, chewing on a pillow rather than chocolate, waking in sheets and not an impossible palace. Of course she wasn’t here… was he finally going mad? The thought stuck like an unpleasant burr, leaving him to chew on the inside of his cheek and a rising knot of anger, sipping at the wine. Perhaps the box’s effects still lingered… An angry mutter rippled out from the crowd like a stone dropped in a pond. People shuffled and moved — over the brims of hats and quivering feathers he glimpsed an infuriating orange will-o-wisp again, followed by a peal of laughter that shot through the hazy room. Unmistakeable. A jolt went through his guts, electrifying his limbs to action. “Excuse m—“ unthinkingly, he wedged past a surly looking bearded woman and her towering man, ignoring the mutters and sour looks. “Excuse…” His yellow eyed bounced ahead, but to his anger another shuffle of dancers blocked the way, a large train of giggling peacocks, their fans whisked out… “Ugh!” A flash of gold. The golden heels from before stuck like a dagger, pinning his trailing skirts; with a womanly yelp the necromancer tripped, corset torn down in utter indecency; as he slapped a hand over his chest, the other thrust out unthinkingly, spraying wine. In arc of red shot from his goblet and splashed onto the nearest woman, utterly drenching her snow-white curls and sparkling emerald dress. A mortified gasp left him, his blank shock rapidly twisting into a painted scowl — his eyes flashed viciously in the direction of the culprit, nostrils flaring. “O-oh!” A man’s baritone rumbled from the tall woman’s throat. “I am— I am so sorry…” He faltered as his eyes wandered from Phaedrus’ powdered face to the… to the… were they real? The apology became a question, face burning a beet red under the thickly applied powder. ”… uh … m-ma’am?” A sharp slap cut him off. Then they were tucked back in with a ruffle of lace, adjusted with the ferocity of a scandalized woman. Phaedrus’ nostrils flared as the man rubbed at the stinging mark on his cheek, gibbering, his adam’s apple bobbing just above his shimmery black collar. “If you’ve ripped my dress, I shall have your neck,” the necromancer snarled in a clearly male voice, sending an array of horror and confusion to trip over the man’s face. One manicured finger jabbed at the felon, the now-empty goblet clenched in his white knuckles. Wine dripped down his pallid hand, starkly red. Several people turned to stare. “Take your filthy shoe off me this instant, you lumbering troll.” The man blinked. Several unintelligible noises came out of his mouth. Finally, his club of a foot lifted, disappearing back into a diaphanous curtain of black. Phaedrus tore his skirts out from under him with an imperious sniff, adjusting them stiffly. One eyebrow arched murderously, lips pressed to the threat of disappearing; his eyes flicked angrily over the damage. Bollocks. Now his skirt was filthy, and trampled, and, and — “Phaedrus!” The effete cry came from behind him. To his further annoyance, Marcel seemed to have popped out of the nether itself, harassed and blinking overmuch — at this closeness he could see the powder beginning to cake around his nose from the summer heat, his long lashes fluttering in agitation. “ There you are, I—oh! What has happened?” The young man’s eyes bounced from the horrified man dressed like a widow to the woman drenched in wine, tan hands fluttering to clasp over his mouth. “O-oh!” “This funerary cow trampled my dress—“ “Hey, now—“ the man stuttered in protest, coal black brows knitting above his hooked nose. “I—!” “Do you know,” the necromancer cut him off snidely, raising his foppish drawl over the noises of protest. “This was hand-tailored by a dear friend, in the style of a kaftan, and—“ “Shhhh!” Marcel pleaded, grabbing Phaedrus’ plump arm, eyebrows crinkled in mortification. What has gotten into him? He was in a perfectly agreeable mood when they left! Unheeding, the necromancer continued to insult the poor man like he'd personally spat on his grandmother's grave (to his increasing discomfort), and it was then he noticed the slur and smelled the unmistakeable sourness of wine on his breath. “Oh, oh — I am sure it was a mistake! Ser, I am truly sorry… don’t… oh, how dreadful! Are you drunk already?” He hissed the last into the man’s ear, a difficult feat considering he had to stand on tip toe, grimacing by the necromancer’s cheek. “Not nearly enough to deal with this widowed queef,” Phaedrus heaved, one hand splayed over his bosom. The accident had rendered it strained, like it threatened to pop out of the lace again, and Marcel gibbered in horror, steering the necromancer away from the purpling man. “Excuse us,” his fluting voice piped. His wide, doeish eyes bounced to the white-haired woman next, mouth trained in a grimace. Oh… oh no. The dress would be ruined. One tan hand fished into his doublet for a handkerchief, but only a miracle worker could reverse such a tragedy — still, it was only proper for a Ser to offer a lady his condolences, was it not? He held out the lacy thing, praying she took it in good stride. “My deepest apologies,” he sniveled, blinking up at Jhaereth and keeping the swaying necromancer straight. “What a dreadful accident…” *** THE MOFT DISTRESSED LADY BAQI Oh..! Oh my goodness... I'm sorry! He winced. Winced, ‘coz piss on it, he wasn’t going to look up, he was just gonna mutter sorry and turn straight back around, right out that door maybe, sayonara as Jade liked to say, he wasn’t — Except the voice sounded awful familiar. Maybe he was hearin’ shit, or the crazy of the south had finally seeped into his head. Leastways he craned his head up slow, clutching onto the offered arm ’n stammering some nonsense, feelin’ like he’d held the thin wrist before, and… The eyes did it. And then the shock of white hair fillin’ his vision, the smile he woulda seen a hundred miles away. By the time she took off her mask he already knew, sprung up the rest of the way, mushed orange bouncing in his top. His face burned bright red, goin’ hot as a furnace, but the joy of finally seein’ her punched the lights outta shame, and all of the sudden his saggy tit and the whole getup became the funniest thing in the world, the most ridiculous — “Ylsa!” His voice cracked with joy, went so high he didn’t even recognize it as his own — couldn’t express how happy he was to see her after rockin’ on that floatin’ coffin for weeks, and— and then dogging around in Reine, riding in a smelly fish cart to Madrid ’n trying to find her house, only he couldn’t, and every time he waited in the marketplace she wasn’t there, and — He woulda said it all but couldn’t, didn’t have to, because she smelled like incense and rosemary an’ all the pretty things she lit up in her house, an’ maybe some perfume with a touch of Kirk — like Ylsa. Baqi hugged her tight, which probably wasn’t the greatest idea because the orange was mushin’ more — and his veil fluttered against her doublet as he laughed, pulling away with a big grin on his face. The orange was leakin’, but he didn’t care. “It’s—it’s — whatever Big Guy scheduled this one’s got a fucked up sense of humor, that’s for sure.” He almost dropped the other orange again out of excitement, realized he should probably put it away before someone else tripped over his, uh, endowment. Hastily the djinn stuffed it back in his chest, looking down at ‘em as he remembered — oh yeah, that’s still a thing — and then back up at Ylsa, unable to stop from laughing. It was all so… so ridiculous. “Yeah, I’m alright. Keep trippin’ over the skirt, though — I dunno how ladies wear this stuff… I can’t get these things straight, neither. Shit.” He shook his head as he fiddled with it, but no mater how much he tried, one was bustin’ out and the other was melting into a kinda oval shape, and smelled like orange juice to boot. He gave up, lettin’ it hang however it wanted, and scratched his head. “Well, I ain’t gonna make pageant queen, I guess. That’s some getup you got there, though.” The djinn grinned, taking in the shock of red and the cloak and the shiny boots. His tan finger reached up to flick the great big feather on top of her head. “I like yer hat.” Edited by Phaedrus, Aug 10 2015, 01:51 AM.
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| Duchess | Aug 10 2015, 11:41 AM Post #20 |
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THE ELEGANT LADY BELLAMY ACCOMPANIED BY THE ESTEEMED DUKE “Step, step, step, wobble, step, step, wobble.” Each word was spoken in a hushed tone. A soft plink of glass shoe tapping delicately against stone sounded with each step, and a delicate grinding came with each wobble. Modeste was doing his best not to look down at his feet as he made every step; but his balance was compromised enough already. His delicate hands were clad in elbow length white gloves, as they delicately lifted skirts of his voluminous ball gown away from the dusty street. “Step, wobble, step, step, wobble, step, wobble. Step, step, step, wobble...” “Now now darling, you know you have to keep that in your head. Otherwise it will hardly be convincing.” the chiding voice was clearly that of a woman, trying to deepen her tone to sound like a man. The source of this voice walked beside Modeste, nearly the same height were the later not in his glass heels. The woman was dressed in traditional formal soldier dress. A fine green coat with polished buttons and gold-braid accenting its emerald colour. Unlike the impractical wear of her partner, this woman wore simple boots, which barely made a sound on the road as they made their way towards the event. “And pick up the pace dear, we are late enough as it is. I swear its almost as if you don't want to go. Very unlike you, you normally love these sorts of parties.” The woman spoke from behind a signature cat-shaped half-mask and her dissimilar eyes glinted from within. Despite the simple loose and low tied ponytail of a soldier, and the traditional clothing of the opposite sex, many in soto would recognize this individual, casually resting on hand on the decorative rapier hung at her side, as the one and only Duchess. Of course, that was the idea, Modeste couldn't well go twice at once to the same ball. “But Moth-” the chime like voice of a lady began to protest before a white gloved finger landed swiftly on his lips. “Ah, ah, ah!” she chided again before softly tsking as she resumed their stride. Modeste attempted to speak again, this time his voice was less feminine and he remembered his discretion. “But Duchess, isn't it convincing enough that I am wearing these?” As he spoke he nodded down towards his chest where the cantaloupe sized false endowments were straining against the white bodice of his ultramarine dress. “Its bad enough that I'm in this ostentatious shade of red lip paint, Padget nearly wept as she put it on me, it is so ill suited!” Modeste's voice was lifting to a whine as his bright red painted lips formed into a sour pout. “No measure is one too far, it is functions like these that help ensure the public never suspects the truth. If you were seen to suddenly waltz in with a mastery of feminine dress and especially shoes like that, then I dare say suspicion of the truth would not be far behind.” The false-Duchess shook her head as she explained, and guided them around a bend. “You know as much, this is not exactly our first masquerade dear. When will you tell me what is really the matter?” “It's the eye-patch as well!” Modeste lied. “Red with white lace? Am I simply mocking fashion now? It is garish and does not at all go with the rest of my ensemble!” The lips beneath the cat-mask pursed and a soft huff came from the woman. “Fine then, keep it to yourself. Perhaps I will be willing to listen when you are ready to tell me.” There was no time to continue the debate as they had nearly arrived at the garden, late enough that it was no longer fashionable. Modeste made a quick adjustment to his wig, ensuring that the ringlets were at least some portion of his costume to be proud of. Then he stepped and wobbled his way into the garden, with 'The Duke' at his side. Fortunately for the pair, when they entered the garden there was enough commotion in various places that their arrival seemed to go mostly unnoticed. The Duke had intended to head straight for Galenna and congratulate her on a lovely party; but Modeste insisted that the matter could wait and instead they should move to the dance floor. All the while he kept his head down as if trying to avoid notice. Instead he found himself having to greet an say hello to a fair number of acquaintances from the social circles of town, as he was complimented both on the style of his gown and the breadth of his...accouterments. Eventually they joined the crowd of dancers in a waltz, and Modeste breathed a soft sigh of relief. His mother was right, normally this sort of party was exactly his favorite event, even with his handicap of being unable to preform to the fullest of his abilities. However this time, he was worried that someone he was too ashamed and embarrassed to face might also attend, and to his further shame, he was afraid to face them. What was one to say to a friend they failed in their greatest time of need? Suddenly, their dance was interupted by shouting. Both had frozen mid-step at the same moment for the two tailors had heard the same thing. ...”trampled my dress-” “Excuse us!” “Pardon!” “Pardonnez moi!” “Comming through!” The pair separated to increase their ability to flutter through the crowd and yet they managed to arrive at the same point together. “Excuse us, dress emergency!” “We heard there was a gown in need!” Modeste and The Duke pushed past the last horrified onlookers to see the scene before them. “Oh dear!” Modeste gasped. “Oh my!” The duke agreed. That wine drenched dress would take a miracle, but not one beyond their abilities, though not while it was wrapped around the wearer. The other was certianly no longer on quite correctly, and to their discerning eyes the crease and footprint were evident indeed, no matter how distracting the contorted face of drunke rage might be. “Ladies, ladies, please let us just calm down.” The duke urged with her gloved hands raised to both sides. “This is supposed to be a fun engagement, lets not start a row over spilt wine and split seams.” “Indeed, we do not need to ruin the entire night. Let's just have a look at your dress here Mad-.... Master Phaedrus!?” Modeste gasped as he realized who the drunken pseudo damsel was and gasped yet again, bringing a white gloved hand to his painted lips. “Are you quite alright?” |
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| Sophia | Aug 10 2015, 02:32 PM Post #21 |
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High Inquisitor of Ashoka
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Sophia She pulled her closer and Sophia felt slightly intoxicated, in truth. "Well, if you like danger then you have found the best person for it" Sophia grinned, and felt a little fluttered. Someone actually liked her for the amount of blood there was on her hands? It seemed unlikely, it seemed to good to be true. They separated briefly, and she grew suspicious. People had liked her for her ability to kill before, it had not ended at all well. Hell, the lady probably only wanted her to do something, and probably knew who she was to begin with. How dare she? She would crush her- They were dancing together again. Wasn't she wonderful? Their faces drew closer for a moment, and Sophia began to close her eyes before the other woman pulled away, smiling at her. "Who likes me?" she asked, a little confused all of a sudden. They were the only ones left in the whole world, why did anyone else matter in the slightest? The dance ended and it left Sophia feeling restless and agitated, cut off in the midst of something. She returned the bow whilst hiding her reluctance. Ooooooooh. Yeah. This was Galena's party. Sophia had truly almost forgot she existed herself. "Sure, she is around somewhere" she quickly found reason to look away to hide a slight blush, her eyes scanning quickly and finding the host quickly. She was the High Inquisitor. She was good at finding people. She reached for a moment to take Calliope's hand, but her courage failed her and she tried to make it look like she had meant to gesture for her to follow closely as she weaved her way to the deserts. Galena seemed a little... Distracted. She felt her face get a little red again but with sheer raw willpower forced it back down. "Hey you" she raised one hand in an awkward wave. Oh great, she was being socially awkward again. Fan-fucking tastic. "I was watching you earlier. On stage. When you performed. Not in a weird way." she looked back to Calliope and tried to think of something to say, before glancing back at Galena, and then back and forth again. "The lady wanted to meet you, and I want to find a hole to hide in" It did not help when she realised that beneath their clothes both of the women where naked. Oh god no that was worse. Think of something else. Swords. She liked swords. Cutty cutty stab stab stab. She could physically feel herself shrinking "I think you are both very pretty" she mumbled "I feel very inadequate." She wondered if it was possible to slip into an awkwardness induced coma? "Oh, I know them!" she suddenly said reasonably loudly and then took a few steps away to stand about an inch away from the wall, staring directly at it. ----- Grand Lord/ Lady of all that is good and bad, supreme arbiter of Awesome and frankly the best one at the party because everyone else is terrible apart from the glowing girl she is quite cool but I bet her dad is even cooler- GOZRIK NOTSWICH Gozrik span on his heel and looked at the man who he had farted in close proximity too. The man looked impressed. Stunned into silence, you might say. He would have probably tipped if he was in any state to talk, so Gozrik took his wallet. Her? The party made it tough to tell. He grabbed his/ her chest. Probably a man. He looked to the crotch, as it was the way to be sure... No. He had to be polite and civilised. "You actually make an alright lady" he mused "I mean, you need a nice pair of tits cause you really cannot do the whole petite and pretty thing like me. Plus have YOU SEEN HOW MUCH JUNK IS IN MY TRUNK? I am practically a scrapyard. Some cultures consider it a deity" he nodded, before adding "And now you bore me so I am going away now. You stay here and look stupid" He immediately went for the booze. Some arsehole had drunk the bowl of whatever it was. Hmmm. He looked around. No more booze here. No more booze. Why? Booze. Booze. Need Booze. He was tempted to reach for his gun... But no, not yet. Play it cool, man. Chill. Have a cigar. There, thats better. And there is a man with a tray of wine. He made a beeline, stopping only to swipe a glass from someones hand and down it, placing the glass back after. He quickly caught up. "Ah, good sir! I am the drink inspector. I will need to check these to make sure they are up to the highest standard" he took one and drank it "Which is of course the Krauswich Gold standard. So named after the worlds handsomest man. I heard he might be here later. You should make sure you have a large barrel of finest booze ready" he had another, and then finished the rest. "My man! Problem! The tray is empty! I must run from such a shameful display!" So he did. Directly into the stage. It was nice music. Soft. He stood and watched for a minute, calming. Yes, this was nice. He took a slow drag on his cigar and walked around, and then up to the stage. "Wonderful, just wonderful. Do you mind if I take this song? Just follow with me" he grabbed a napkin and pencil from a handbag and made a quick drawing "Improvise around that" he passed the napkin over and went to the front of the stage. He breathed in, hummed a bar or two and then launched into a gentle ballad, soft and rhythmic. It lasted for about five minutes before he jumped off the stage because he saw some else with drinks pass nearby. What, he could sing. Of course he could, why would he not? |
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| Nakara Besschentyil | Aug 25 2015, 05:46 PM Post #22 |
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@$^#$^%!!!!!
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Nakara and Tarts He wouldn't have even known how to dance if Nakara hadn't taught him, way back when. Once a year, for a month, Brennia would leave to visit other members of the family on the other side of the country, leaving Nakara in charge. Surprisingly -- or perhaps not -- she had made an excellent matriarch: so long as everything got done that needed to get done, Nakara was content to let everyone do pretty much whatever they pleased. It resulted in a lot more laughter in the morbid hallways, the younger boys playing and mingling with the slave children, and for those days at least their father too could relax. For a month, Ashcombe was a happy house. It was during one of these months that Nakara had taught her brother to dance, and during the other free days they had he would sometimes ask if they could practise. She kept saying he was being gay, but he didn't care: he actually rather enjoyed it. Naturally he had kept practising until... well, until father had spirited him away and they had run off without a word. But that was long ago and far away. "Taras," He said, and threw her a good eyebrow wiggle. "But you can call me Tatas." The boy-girl whisked him away onto the dance floor and he found himself grinning. This --! This was what he had been missing all those years! Fun! She swung him around a little, shorter than him but with a great fiery strength in her eyes and her movements. He could feel the warmth radiating off of her, and thought she was either especially vivacious or with scores of magic in her veins. Or both. A reel from Murrim was played, for a little bit anyway, and Taras was overcome with a sudden joy. All at once he tucked his fan into his corset and seized Bastion just above the wrists. "Get ready..!" Was the only warning before he pulled her in quickly, grabbing her waist, and tossed her up into the air a few inches. He caught her again easily and swung her around in a wide circle, laughing, ignoring the irate states of some other dancers he probably clocked in the process. Some people applauded and cheered. Yes, this was what he had missed most about life: pure, careless joy. ----------------- "Oh you can call me whatever you like, starshine." The he-she dark elf was playing along, and that was excellent: there was a lot of potential for fun and thinly-veiled, perverted, high-brow jokes to be made. She twirled and dipped him effortlessly. Dancing wasn't really her idea of a good time but being a martial artist -- and the second-most-sober she had been in her life -- meant that she was quite good with footwork, and this Jenna babe was as light as a feather in her powerful arms. Sounds dirty. She commented to no one in particular. But they weren't dancing very long when suddenly Jenna had wine on her dress (a shame, it was one of the nicest dresses she had ever seen), and the air was choked with indignation and the stench of wine. Nakara glanced over the scene, her eyes helplessly glancing back to the mostly-empty glass rather more than it should have. Her lips suddenly felt so dry, her throat parched. Maybe just.... A thousand times no. She berated herself for even considering it. While she was lost in thought and suddenly more concerned about the wine spilled than the dress, a golden-skinned stranger decked out in furs and leaves and looking like a virile Green Man took Jenna's shoulders. A half-skull mask with the horns of a young ibex fixed to the forehead did not cover the long, pale braid and the carefree smile. Nakara frowned. "The hell're you doin' here?" Merisiel grinned. "Stealin' your gurl." She leaned into Jhaereth's ear and whispered: "I can lick it off if you like, bl-lah-lah-lah~" her tongue waggled out between her lips in an amusing over-the-top suggestion. With a sigh, but not necessarily a bad one, Nakara stood back and crossed her arms, watching all the short people gaggle and make a fuss over a dress. Another couple of shrimps waifed their way, behaving like superhero tailors or seamstresses. Good lord, this was why she's never really be-- Her train of thought screeched to a grinding halt and her arms fell to her sides. The cynicism in her face fled all at once, leaving a stunned girl in its wake, brows raised, eyes wide, taking in one of the newcomers to the less-than-tragic scene. There was rather more color on it than when she had last seen it -- it seemed like years ago. A kind of ache constricted her chest momentarily and her thoughts went careening back to that day at the Academy when she scooped him up with flowers in his hair, laughing at his embarassment, under the sun and in the verdant green of the academy grounds. He was busy just now and hadn't noticed her yet, but once she glimpsed him she found herself smiling calmly and fondly. She crossed her arms again and relaxed visibly, and while the rest of the world was flipping its shit about dresses and spilled booze and dancing, she was only watching him. Owen the Obnoxious As it always seemed to happen, all the cares in the world took a backseat when she met up with Baqi. It didn't take long for him to smile, and to laugh, and she loved it. A tender joy filled her spirit so completely she thought it might burst, and she laughed with him like they had just smoked ten bowls of Purple Yin. "Oh -- well at least you smell really nice!" The juice from the orange, she could care less about, though it spotted her shirt ever so slightly. Shirts didn't really matter all that much, and besides she knew some mean ways to get stains out. Being a thousand years old had its definite perks: you had all the time in the world to figure out how to deal with the small nitty gritty things. Besides, she liked oranges. Orange was one of her favorite smells. She clapped delightedly when he commented on her hat, and adjusted it a little. "Thanks! The hat is my favorite, honestly -- they just don't make hats this swanky anymore." She put a finger to her lips and examined his getup with a thoughtful hum. "It has potential... hmm.... wait a second..." She took off her gloves and tucked them under her arm, then taking the waistband of Baqi's skirt and rolling it up a bit so he wouldn't trip on the hem, and finished it off by tugging it to his hip-line. Next she peered around for... something. "Aha!" For a moment she drifted to a bench a few feet away and stole the tiny, impractical cushions from it. "Remove your boobs, madam!" She said in Owen's voice. When they were gone she tucked the cushions into the top and adjusted it so the lacy frills wouldn't be seen, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. She clapped again and grinned, satisfied. "There you go! Perfectly soft, perfectly believable. Perfect B-36. "But how long have you been in Madrid? I wish I had known, I could have made you supper before you came here. Ah, but there's plenty of food here -- lets go to the tables, I'm starving..!" |
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| Galena | Sep 9 2015, 05:15 PM Post #23 |
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Thy sins, paid in blood...
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The Dandy "I asked if you were enjoying the party." It came out a little more arch than she intended, undoubtedly her own enjoyment skewed by the uncommon flash of jealousy. Had she not already been green eyed, she might have said that she was becoming a green eyed monster. Not in public...not here, Sayna save us. Maybe the girl - she thought she was a girl, trussed up as a boy - had a hearing problem. Hardly surprising since it was so busy, so much chatter and bodies swishing this way and that in the social dance. There was a flash of fire off near the house which must have been the performers finally arriving. One of them could swallow swords apparently, she'd seen it done once in the streets but never had the chance to ask how. Such parlour tricks might be seen as beneath half of the gentry here but she enjoyed it all the same, and had clearly stated that it was an open doors affair. Besides, nothing was as exciting or terrifying as the potential for your house and garden to catch fire from an errant flame dropped by a clumsy fire-eater. And now she'd eaten most of a pie and felt terribly bloated. Somehow her wine glass had emptied itself, as well as another one by her elbow. Well, anything sitting by itself was free game. As quickly as if she'd been burned, the councillor dropped the pie dish back onto the table and arranged several delicacies in such a way as to...hide it. Well there wasn't any better way to put it, she thought as she slid the empty wine glasses away along the table, as if they weren't in fact hers. Good. Well, now if she just scooted along a bit nobody would notice. Her hands lifted the jar with its curious specimen, tucking it neatly into the crook of her elbow and turned, automatically raising her hand, fingers crooked in a half wave. "Oh, hello!" She positively squeaked. Like a tiny mouse. And hated herself just a little bit for it. "Oh? I hope it wasn't too disappointing. I don't usually perform with others." She waited politely as Sophia seemed a little lost, or undecided, perhaps both. It struck her that it was quite out of character of the little she knew and had shared with the woman. Hard and uncompromising, highly precise and efficient..not wobbling like a giddy girl...though she could hardly blame her. She could feel the strange green connection there that lingered through the grass beneath their feet, an unspoken understanding of a sort when she met the nymph's gaze. Galena almost wished she hadn't come over at all, obviously fully mature and in the summer of her life, she was painfully gorgeous up close, more so than she had been when she was still over there dancing, if that was possible. A thousand filthy euphemisms sprang to mind, her mouth opened, the gutter threatening to overflow, then she snapped it closed and swallowed her words, a tinge of bile as the retort crept back where it came from, and smiled. It came as easily and naturally as facing any politician on a daily basis, polite, cool, colourless. Galena dropped into a neat courtly bow befitting her attire. "Does the lady bear a name?" Sure she didn't offer you a hole to hide in already? "Nonsense, thou art positively dashing tonight, Sophia. Very striking indeed." Her eyes skated with difficulty away from Calliope, settled on the Inquisitor and bloomed into a frown when she stepped away to...converse...with the wall. Well...alright then. "Sophia..." She slipped her hand into the cup of the taller woman's elbow, guiding her back to their little trio with a gentle, if perplexed smile. "Really now. Thou art doing just splendidly. Come, there are performers just setting up. Apparently there is a man who can eat blades, I daresay you knoweth the secret?" She didn't want to say 'fifty ways to kill a man with a blade through the throat', it sounded like a book title, but the woman probably knew more than that, even. She'd never struck her as the nervous type before, but she supposed it was possible of course. Perhaps watching the displays of mummers, juggles, fire-eaters and sword-swallowers might distract a little from that. Easily she looped her other hand through Calliope's arm as if the three of them were old friends and began to guide them towards the entertainment. *** The Maiden "You absolute fetcher!" He shrieked, in possibly the most unwomanly manner possible, his voice soaring to a level that might have broken glass were just a notch higher. Gods but it was everywhere. He could feel it soaking into his snowy locks, dripping and dribbling over the curve of his shoulders and chasing the length of his spine freely, pooling in his gods damned cleavage! And his dress, oh his poor dress... "Ruined!" He was enjoying the evening, and now this...this...oh by the gods it was him. Well now he'd make sure to enjoy it doubly so, and tell the fiery little pundle that he'd left her for good. His poisonous eyes latched onto the proffered handkerchief, flashing with icy rage. "Accident?" he hissed. Neither of them had liked one another from day one, it was just another excuse... His dance partner forgotten, the drow's hand flicked in a sharp, vicious little gesture, the air temperature dropping to a numbingly cold level around him, made his skin crackle with it- Warm hands grasped his shoulders, the smell of freshly turned earth and green things, the dry almost dusty smell of fur and feathers that oft made him sneeze, some sort of delicate floral spritz...and the unmistakable scent that still haunted his dark hours sometimes. Abruptly he clipped the syllable off, half formed on his tongue, all ferrous raw tanginess coating his throat as he released it, dropping his hand. One more and her skin might have come off touching him, like licking an icicle... He could hardly believe it himself, to be honest. It was a small world after all. "Merisiel?!" Jhaereth bristled, his eyes flicking to where the thrice damned necromancer was tucking his surprisingly ample tit back into his dress, snarling at someone else. Torn between flaying the fetcher and dallying with the rowdy jungle elf, indecision warred briefly behind his venomous gaze. Meri won. He swallowed his vitriol, snaking his arm casually around her waist and pulling her flush against him, uncomfortably aware of how the dress was now sticking to his hip and leg, near black with wine stains. Anger seethed and simmered just below the surface, lending a particular snappishness to his movements as he breathed an inch from her lips, the slightest sneer curling his mouth. "I'm positively certain I saw some strawberries over there, perhaps we ought to get some and I can show you all the best places to eat them from." He jerked back as someone bustled over, plucking at his sodden garment with little heed. He'd thought for a second she'd groped his backside. Maybe she had. Why did everyone have this desperate need to check his sexuality? It was quite obvious...wasn't it? "Do you know how much this cost? Probably more than those poor excuses for breasts she's carrying!" He sniffed, tossing his hair expertly over one shoulder, earrings bouncing. "Madam take your hands off me." It wouldn't be easy, but he dropped his hand, fingers flexing and ready to reach between his thighs and draw the stiletto strapped to his leg. There wasn't really anywhere else he could keep it, but he'd shank every one of these pale milk-drinkers if they tried to damn well undress him right here. *** The Prince "Ye got nice tatas, Tatas." She laughed with unrestrained joy, a deep thrumming sound that crawled from her belly to her throat, spinning recklessly with him til she thought she might keel over. The only method to not was just to keep going all the same and not start spinning the other way too fast. She was pretty sure that as a being of near-humanity, she could still throw up. Her eyes widened behind the beaten bronze mask as he grabbed her wrists, mouth splitting into a salubrious grin a heartbeat before he tugged her in, then lifted her..and let go. A wild flutter of excitement leaped in her breast, panic and fear, and absolute delight all mingling giddily as the world continued turning. She whooped as people tutted and began applauding or laughing, restraining herself from shouting 'SUCK IT YEH MINGERS' because it was wildly inappropriate. She laughed brightly again as he caught her, swinging her with wild abandon. Ye gods but it felt good to dance, really dance, not this shyte that these southeners insisted on with the barely touching hands and carefully placed feet. What was real about it? It was all so staged, not like real' dancin'. Real dancin' should from the heart, no matter how crap you were, all you had to do was move and enjoy yourself. She knocked shoulders with someone as they span, went offkilter and stumbled, bounced on the balls of her feet just barely hanging onto Tatas, eyebrows shooting up in consternation before she regained her footing and hopped back into their little circle which people were rapidly avoiding to no surprise. A ripple of disquiet passed through the dancers before she noticed that the music had jarred to a stop, the jaunty tune trickling away as the violin kept going a couple of beats after the rest. Bast raised her eyes to look questioningly at her tall, dark and handsome partner, then tilted her head and smirked as the muttering and snickering reached her. "Someone's titty fell oot! I smell a catfight!" Without waiting for him she grabbed his hand and lurched almost drunkenly in the general direction, shouldering through people without stopping to say sorry - those that didn't get out of the way anyway. It was like standing in front of a bull trapped in a very small china shop otherwise, her small plump hands firmly manhandling people until they were out of the way. Breathing hard from the dance she surfaced from the edge of the crowd, a shriek making the nearest wine glass held in the hand of some squat toadish woman with too-tight pantaloons vibrate. If she didn't know better that was her date. "Definitely a catfight." she muttered, then turned back to him, shoving someone else out of the way as she did so to an indignant squawk. "S'my date innit. Nae sure if he's e'en a bloke under a' that." Truly, he was probably more woman than she was, and not for the simple reason that she was an elemental. She snorted with laughter as the pair of..well, she'd have called them witches, hissed and spat at each other like a couple of cats with their tails pulled, the air chilling to deathly cold, her heart jumping into her throat. What was he, insane?! No, no of course not, he just didn't care, the fucking sociopathic idiot. The world was still swinging lazily, making her steps uncertain. Bast found herself biting her tongue, not wanting to go near that cold, her hand tightening on Taras' arm and leaning into him for balance. “Indeed, we do not need to ruin the entire night. Let's just have a look at your dress here Mad-.... Master Phaedrus!?” The giggle caught in her throat, wedged firmly and she turned to look, really look at more than just the glittering shoes, the sumptuous dress. He'd had his back to her, but as he turned to snip at the effete dandy clinging so possessively to his arm, she might have swallowed a full pitcher of vinegar. She'd have known the noble nose, the pointed chin and arched eyebrows, glittering yellow eyes narrowed exactly like an angry feline. A painfully sweet ache built in her chest, the smile half forming on her lips. He actually looked surprisingly good in a dress, had fooled her good. Perhaps she'd surprise him, sneak up behind and diffuse the situation by asking him to dance. She loitered a moment longer, undecided, some awful twist of the spirit taking a sadistic pleasure in the way they snapped and baited one another, her dark eyes dancing to the flimsy girlish Marcel. Drank in the touch of the arm, the flapping foppish hands, the closeness as he hissed something in the necromancer's ear...and found herself stepping back instead, face screwing up in uncertainty. She thought she could understand why no message had come now, why the innkeeper had given her such strange looks every time she'd asked, the questions growing more frequent. Of course...what a fool she'd been, a stupid, stupid eejit. In a flash she could see herself burning him to a crisp in a variety of ways, watching as the ichor bubbled from a broken nose, could feel her temper rising, a tremor passing through her flesh like an ode to the greater terror she'd been bound to. But where it should have exploded out, incinerating them all, there was nothing, just an empty quiet, a tiny fractured noise like the breaking of a mouse's heart, lost among their squabbling. Not here...not now. "I hae tae go. Look me up sometime Tatas, t'was greit tae meet ye." She released the young man somewhat regretfully, then elbowed her way backwards to grunts and shouts of irritation, ignored as she felt the first prickling of the hated, scalding tears. What had she expected? To just keep vanishing and getting tied down with things, to turn up and everything would be perfect again? But she'd come back, come back... Water blocked her way, as it did so often, and she found her fists bunching in her kilt, wrestling with an ugly bubbling sob, not entirely sure why it mattered so much. It hadn't with Orion and Chimaed. Bast scrubbed at her face with her sleeve, smearing the burning fluid onto the back of her hand and wrist, discolouring to silver. She pushed the mask up with her fingers, removed it and pulled it from her head, hair wisping through the ties, filaments turning blue, let it hang limp by her side. Curse the drow, t'was his stupid idea. An' curse the bawheid necromancer an' a', an' his sickly little fecker. |
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| Phaedrus | Sep 10 2015, 08:34 PM Post #24 |
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
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THE MOFT TEMPESTUOUS LADY FAE & STALWART SER MARCEL Marcel gave a squeak like a mouse tramped underfoot, flinching away at the drow’s — well, his utterly unseemly behavior! Just then the temperature dropped to a deathly cold, and his petal lips opened in surprise. Unconsciously he flinched behind the necromancer, who did not appear impressed in the least. In fact, he had the expression of someone who had tried to swallow a live bucket of rats, and was midway to regurgitating them. That is to say… he laughed. It came out high and bright, the pure, simple laugh of one who has just seen their hated rival drenched in wine. For a moment he felt his spirits lift again, the affair with his modesty and dirty hem nearly forgotten. Phaedrus held tightly to Marcel, all but spitting in the dandy’s face. “Ah? That is what you get for dressing like a two-penny whore.” A malevolent smile opened up on his face. If the temperature dropped — oh, let it! Did he mean to intimidate him? Intimidate him, after he had seen the very strands of reality unravelling at the Mulciber? The very notion made it all the more hilarious, in truth — in fact, he would have delighted in nothing more than starting a fight with the drow, and leaving an ugly black smear on the petunias. Since their meeting a year prior, they’d done nothing but sneer at each other from the fringes of polite society, ignoring one another’s presence like a fart slipped at a gala. He could not have picked a better person to throw wine on. Now his smile was positively dazzling, his eyes shining with malice. “No loss, really,” Phaedrus continued primly, lowering his painted lashes. “All you’d have to do is cut up a mystic’s curtain and get a blind man to drape it on you. There shan’t be a difference…” To his abject disappointment, an elf seized his target by the shoulders and spun him about, distracting the little arsewipe from his magic bravado— and, it seemed, she was more intriguing company than him. That didn’t keep him from exchanging a few more cold stares with the drow, of course, and as he turned to throw one last ugly look over his shoulder, the necromancer waggled his fingers good-bye in a coquettish wave, a smug, prim smile curving his lips. “Phaedrus,” a soft voice trembled in his ear, abashed. “You were absolutely dreadful to that man.” The necromancer in question opened his mouth, painted lips parting. He took a breath. And he would have gone on to use that breath to tell Marcel to shut up, that it was none of his business, and furthermore he should be grateful he took pains to take him along at all, especially if he was going to be such an insufferable twat — but none of those things came out. Instead, his chill eyes stopped boring a hole into the young man’s, and flickered towards the familiar voice that addressed him, one he hadn’t heard in… oh devils, how long was it, now? His lips rounded to a small o. “Master Bellamy!” As he turned, he barely stifled a snort at the gaudy lipstick, the attempt to feminize features that suffered no such lack of grace. Why, it only distracted from the fey beauty of his face, and he was sorry to see it. Instantly his demeanor sweetened, as jarring as a hag suddenly donning a cherub’s mask. “I am quite fine. Oh, but my anger quite got away from me.” A delicate, manicured hand fluttered to his bosom. Discreetly—perhaps because he knew all-too-much about the elf’s opinion of modesty—he hiked up his skirts a bit more, easing the strain on the corset. A syrupy smile drizzled across his face. “I thought there would be lasting damage, and… ah, no matter. It has been ages, it seems, since we have had tea! I pray you have not been too bent under work?” A strange turn of phrase, he noticed as he chirped it. He still could not quite deny his lingering taste for Bellamy, doomed to fail as it was. The councillor appeared not to notice his advances, or else denied them entirely — a shame, but then… His gaze left the man’s exquisite face to rest on the second tailor, an inane giggle burbling off his lips. “And the honorable Duche— the Duke,” Phaedrus corrected himself, affecting a curtsey. It was impeccable; he had practiced it without fail, and appeared all-too-comfortable performing one in heels and skirts. “What an honor, ser and madame.” Marcel was staring at him strangely, and with a start he remembered the young man still clinging to his arm. “Marcelline,” Phaedrus attempted as sweetly as he could, a manicured finger twirling around his fiery tresses. “This is the Councillor Bellamy, and her indefatigable colleague, the Duchess— the Duke.” Another wine-flush giggle. “Oh!” The little man fluted, bubbling away like a little songbird. “A pleasure, indeed!” He appeared to be terribly nervous in the company of so many political heads — or perhaps it was Modeste’s own agreeable countenance that put him in such a fluster. “What a… what a beautiful dress that is!” the little man bumbled, his powdered cheeks reddening ever so. * * * THE MOFT AGREEABLE LADY BAQI At least you smell really nice! Baqi grinned, woulda ducked and given himself an experimental sniff. Well, ain’t that a change for once. Sometimes the guy launched up and announced he couldn’t stand it — he was gonna have a bath right now, and even when he turned invisible for hours the tiefling always caught up to him, and then it was suds, lights out… “Well, it’s cheaper than perfume, that’s f’sure. Little sticky, though.” He thought about just fishin’ ‘em out and having done with ‘em. Wasn’t like he was foolin’ anybody. Who cared if he was a little bit flat-chested? People weren’t gonna be disappointed or anything. “Never seen one like it. How old’s it?” The djinn blinked up in genuine curiosity, watching the feather bob around. He loved listening to stories ‘bout all the things Ylsa had in her house — went around and touched ‘em one by one, asked what this was and what that was and boggled at her stories of far-off places, islands glitterin’ out in the ocean, old scrolls and old lives and old cities she used to walk through. Maybe she was some kinda pirate in that life? It seemed like it could be a pirate hat. Captain Ylsa… Thought of a ship made him a little too queasy for his tastes — he got off the rabbit trail, patiently waiting as Ylsa worked her magic on ‘im. He’d never really gotten the hang of dressing ‘imself nice or coordinating shit or learning how to tie a proper bow an’ lace up sandals. Wasn’t like the djinni needed any of that. And the rules changed everywhere you went, from human city to human city — how did anyone keep up with alla that shit? By some miracle he fixed his skirt so he could actually see the tips of his sandals, and he wasn’t tripping so bad anymore. His bushy eyebrows shot up, a laugh bustin’ out and makin’ his veil flutter at her next request. “Whoa, whoa. Hey. We haven’t even had dinner first!” He put his palms out like he was offended, dark eyes wide. Then after a sec he broke into a grin, snorting, and fished into his top. What he pulled out was pretty sad and lopsided, and leakin’ everywhere in a way that boobs shouldn’t. “Seen better days,” Baqi sighed, awkwardly lookin’ around for somewhere to put ‘em. Probably no one wanted to eat hairy chest oranges, so he shouldn’t put ‘em on the table… blinking, the djinn settled on shoving them into a potted plant, hopin’ no one noticed. He waited as Ylsa fiddled around with his top an’ stuck in the replacements, tucking ‘em nice and snug into the shimmery fabric. The djinn rocked on his heels an’ gave ‘em an experimental bounce, grinning. “Hey, they passed the jiggle test.” That, he remembered Sabe slurrin’ one time. That’s when you know they’re real. He didn’t question ‘im further, really — just kinda nodded and slid over another glass of the hard stuff, coughing awkwardly over the kitchen table. Never trust a rack that doesn’t dance, kid… He felt a sudden ache in his chest, missin’ him and Jade all over again… got an unexpected hitch when Ylsa said he woulda made him dinner, grateful beyond words that he’d run into her again. It’d been a long, long journey, and… “Not too long. A week, maybe. I came outta Reine, and — and well, I thought…” he’d waited in the market like an eager dog, sitting on the fountain where they’d first met, but… it’d rained, and then the weather was ugly for a few days, and when the sun came out again he figured he must missed her, or maybe she changed spots, or maybe she was outta town, or… “I mean, I guess I stopped by at a bad time—but I waited in the market, an’ stopped by your house but it… looked dark, so I didn’t wanna…” He felt the heat risin’ in his cheeks, everything turning into a confused mumble. When he waited outside the dim cottage his mind took out alla its knives, told ‘im he wasn’t wanted, told ‘im he shouldn’t barge in uninvited — but the joy on Ylsa’s face when she saw ‘im cleared it all away, made him feel absurd for even thinkin’ it in the first place. Baqi shook his head, hair floppin’ every which way. Didn’t matter, now, really. He gave a grateful laugh, clearin’ away the awkward words like clutter on a table. “Leastways… I’m glad we bumped into each other, I… I got so much to tell ya, lady.” The faintest hint of pride trickled into his voice. For once glad he’d managed to do somethin’ for himself, come so far, and — well if it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’tve known, wouldn’tve found it in him to do it at all, and he had so much to say, and so much to thank her for, and… The words all clustered behind his mouth, knocked on his teeth, but he couldn’t order ‘em enough to say it — and maybe it wasn’t the time, anyway, not with people laughin’ and lanterns bobbing in the air, Ylsa’s face outshining all of theirs, a serene smile on her face. Without thinkin’ he took her hand, smiling up at her. For a moment he just felt… happy, like the world couldn’t fix itself up better’n this, his mind at peace for once. The only thing that messed it all up was his stomach, which gave a gurgle like a whiny fish. “I call dibs on the cannolis,” he grinned, racing her over to the table. |
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| Shiro | Oct 3 2015, 02:47 AM Post #25 |
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Valkoinen Metsästäjä
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Shiro shifted slightly, still scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Heard a commotion as Lady Faedrus and the Emperor were causing some scene. Shiro watched for a few precious seconds before returning back to scanning the room. She spotted Thaleia dancing with someone and was getting real friendly with th- Reflexes went on full blast, the Neko braced for impact as someone nearly barreled into her. Luckily for the both of them, he regained his composure and was now looking directly at Shiro. Staring. Shit, shit, shit, please don't say anything please, don't say anything, please don't say anything... For the love of all the gods, don't dance with her. He spoke. ...DAMMIT He spun and pointed at a lady whom of which was chastising her husband about something. She practically broke my neck. It was rather fun though. Maybe you should dance with her. The man continued. Shiro got a good look at him. If she wasn't extremely nervous and now on full defensive alert, she'd consider him very attractive. He also appeared to be tipsy. Gross. It took a lot of willpower not to stab the man just for getting so close. For the fifth time in her life, Shiro cursed her instincts. She wasn't used to parties. Realizing that her hand was resting on the hilt of one of her daggers, she quickly returned it to a neutral position, wishing to not alarm the man. She hoped that he wouldn't notice that motion she made. Also, I'm Councillor Aniketos Hesperés. Who are you? Do you want a dance? Even though we're both in dresses? Oh. great. ANOTHER Councillor. First Galena now Aniketos? It didn't surprise Shiro much. After all, it was a ball and the graceful Galena was the host. what's next? A king of some sort? Right. Better not jump to conclusions, cause it might actually happen. "Shiro. Shiro Sogeki. Pleasure" Her voice slightly trailing off. She curtsied slightly towards Aniketos. Was that the proper thing to do? Shiro silently hoped that her form was acceptable enough for the councilor. She didn't know him and probably wouldn't be as down to Earth as Galena. A Dance? What could it hurt? Get tossed about by some oafish fool for a bit, then hopefully there is a break and he disappears off to find some other damsel to distress. Then from there Shiro could finally catch someone she actually knew. The wine must be getting to her head. "Um, why yes, that would be lovely." Shiro tried her best to sound dainty. The words tasted sour in her mouth, making her wish she could rinse it out with soap. Shiro's tail flicked under her dress, in agreement. "I must warn you, I don't usually wear get-ups like this, so my dancing skills will be atrocious." The Neko switched her tone, making sure he knew the reason why she was dressed as she was. This wasn't by choice, partially. If the catgirl could wear her normal clothes she probably could be a little less tense in this situation. But that would make her look like some pauper amongst kings and queens. Why, indeed. Why was she even agreeing to a dance? With a councilor no less? Shiro's train of thought arrived at the conclusion that she must dance and intermingle with the people at the party. It wouldn't be much fun if she just stood around looking uncomfortable the whole time. Maybe she could gain some favours and make a friend or two while she was at it? "No funny business, ok? One dance." She half glared at him, setting a boundary quickly. She held her hand out for the Councillor to take. |
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